They come for you in the small hours,
in the cracks of consciousness
too thin for even grief
to get a foothold.

It suits them fine,
this arrangement of equals,
nothing to add or subtract
from either side.

There is no magic,
no grand unfolding of design,
just idle chit-chat,
the merits of trivial decisions,

whether this or that thing
has this or that meaning,
whether or not you’re asleep,
and which of you is dead.