Minutes are my currency,
Traded with myself in the war on unrest.
Minutes counted, cherished, down to seconds.
Minutes I carried on my back in seasons untold.
They were precious.
They were lost. Or stolen. I can’t remember.
I remember they were scattered on the pavement beneath my feet.
My knees are still scraped and bruised, nails broken, from clawing at the remains.
I saved some.
I place what are left, one each night, on the pillow beside me,
But they are always gone by morning,
Lost in the pillow’s whisper: you’ve been here before.
Once, minutes were worth moments.
Gasping and echoing. Glowing. Hot.
Lighting me from the inside out like a firework
That makes others stumble, lose their breath.
Now, there is gray: clocks and countdowns,
Crossing my fingers for it to end.
Now, there is more work than time,
More hoping sleep presents itself to me like an offering given to God,
Like a bill drifting from the pocket of an unknowing man,
Landing at the feet of another who’s already rich.
But you can never have too much (enough) time.
Now,
I value my life in terms of sleep.
Just wait a minute,
Just one damn minute—just wait—
Life should happen in the moments between sleep and sleep,
Between sleep and fighting the next sleep because there’s so much to do right now,
There’s so much I want to do, so please, just let me stay awake for another minute,
Just give me a few more—
Now, life happens in the minutes of sleep,
In colors like neon; in sounds like screeching;
In sensations that are not ever quite that full when I’m awake.
There are not enough minutes to make moments,
To answer, “When will I sleep?”
To know if I’ll ever again wake long enough
To win the war.