Some nights I watch myself
and feel time slipping
like a phantom
through the dark hours.

Unable to launch myself
from the continent of consciousness
into the placid sea of sleep,
I nurse a vague distrust
in the hidden compass that guides
me back into the certain harbor
of the dawn.

So I hover like a ghostly twin
projected out of body,
a silent witness to these vacant
hours registered in moonlight,
circuit across my bedroom rug.

This may be nothing more
than a remnant out of childhood
when I fought sleep, fearing
I might miss something.