“The throbbing in my hand keeps me up at night”

In the hush between the streetlights and the moon,  
My hand betrays the slumber I invite—  
A pulse within, a quiet, aching tune,  
The throbbing in my hand keeps me up at night.

Once nimble fingers—now reluctant, slow—  
Trace shapes of pain across the cotton sheet,  
Each thump a tide where silent worries flow,  
A rhythm measured by a restless beat.

Perhaps I strained it lifting yesterday—  
A heavy box, a memory, a care;  
Perhaps it’s simply time that finds a way  
To etch its stories in the bones laid bare.

I count the beats as clocks confess the hour,  
Remembering old gardens, seeds I’d sow,  
The brush held fast, the mark of craft and power—  
Now even dreams are gentle, quiet, low.

Yet in this dark, with bruising, pulsing light,  
A thousand wishes flutter from my mind:  
For morning’s mercy, and the fading bite,  
For peaceful rest, for comfort I might find.

But till the hush is softened by the dawn,  
And gentle songbirds mend the endless night,  
I keep my vigil, nurse a hand worn, drawn—  
The throbbing in my hand keeps me up at night.

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