after the alarm clock ring in the lull of the glow of winter morning sky under the chilled canvas of sheets soaked full up on the smell of the memory of the backs of your knees and that flat point between the shoulder blades where my hand during lonely useless sleepless moments fit like a glove protecting against the coldest winds, i am; sick from the tired of never-sleep-ever-wake; these ice storms covering the entirety of the city in which we live under the glassy suffocating surface of slippery dangerous ground; the long moments under the fabric of the memory of your smile and the rest of the hours of the day that followed grey and useless filled only with the haunting lonely constant sounds of scraping ice from window screens in the parking lot somewhere far below the spaces i currently inhabit; ghosts walking the day away breaking the ice in steady endless crushes below their heavy footfalls