Living Without You

How do you sleep at all when a poem learns to breathe and begins living inside you? (not behind the shelf the sexton has the key to) Why should I sleep, anyway? I dream enough awake and couldn't find rest if I slept for days. (because you'd saturate sight) I just want to think of you when I choose to, and love you the way your friends do, (without prayer, and that pale sustenance) but tonight I'll not sleep at all; I'll whisper and sprawl. Poems aren't alive, but you and I, (with just the door ajar) we are.