I sit on my bed, cross-legged, rocking back and forth.
The sleep I couldn't quite obtain taunts me from my pillows, leaving its telling shadows under my eyes.
"He is doing something, He is doing something,"'
I whisper to the ceiling, blinking as a hummingbird bats its wings, as if one tear will melt my entire frame.
Closing my eyes, I imagine deep red, gray, and black smoke, billowing around me, the kind that escalates from a freshly extinguished candle or a Native American's fire.
They surround me now, encircling my position on the bed. I don't move, don't dare to ask them away.
My spirit is still.
Somewhere there's light.
Somewhere, I know this isn't life.
That these colors, although consuming my retinas, are easily turned into pinks and whites.

Instantly, a small, wet tear trickles down my weary, viciously rubbed cheek.