When Insomnia Meets Quarantine – A Spoken Poem
I stand before my window counting the minutes to sunrise. I watch every raindrop race through my window and enjoy the sound of rain violently meeting the roof. It is the only sound that reminds me I am here. I stare at the bottom end of my glass and see which drop makes it to the finish line first. I let the scent of wet mud occupy my senses, this night will be a memory amongst many. This night is a dream I see at 1 p.m. when the birds are returning to their nests, and me to bed. It is a line in a forgotten poem, it is a piece of myself I cherish but do not value. I look at the stars and hope to see your face smiling back at me on the moon, do you remember me like I do you? it is in my loneliest nights that I remember to remember you, until the white thread of dawn becomes distinct, until it turns pink then paints the sky blue, I remember you and then you are gone.
I sit before my window counting the minutes to sunset and wonder how I manage to make every poem about you. I watch every raindrop race through my window and enjoy the sound of rain hitting the roof, it reminds me it has been days since I last moved. It is only then that it hits me, that first drop to reach the bottom end of my glass is not the one I was rooting for. The scent of wet mud deep in my veins does not look good on a sunny sky and green spaces but it is the only way I know I am alive.
My room smells like wet mud and dying jasmine. The rain keeps falling as it reminds me of the tears that dried on my pillow. I can feel it ironically begging me to go cry and be human for once in a while. This night is a dream, it is a cycle, a routine. This morning felt the same three mornings ago, five nights ago, I cannot tell the day from the night anymore.
Author: Nourhane Atmani.