I was trying to sleep when my blue-grey
anxiety decided it was time
to analyze every word you had, and hadn’t,
said in the last week:

I said ‘I love you,’ one time, you didn’t say it back
and you asked me to not call you
because you didn’t feel well. 
I know you love me. Why is this so damn hard? 

Your replies to texts were succinct,
but not unkind.
Pulling conversation out of you
felt like climbing Everest without a guide. 

And while I won enough to not call you (because you 
asked me not to) when it wasn’t quite last night, 
but not quite this morning either, I haven’t slept. 
And we know what happens when I don’t sleep.

We know what happens when I don’t sleep.