Practice makes perfect...

“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow,”

The boy said to his mind,

Not knowing where he was going

As he faded into blind...

Outsides didn't matter: pink >blue >dim skies

Through the window screen,

Or parents arguing >laughing >shushing

Each other, or blinks of red and green

From chargers and devices on his

Cord-crossed bedroom floor,

Or memories of news-briefs clacking:

“Heatwave?” “Depression?” “War?”

Insides didn't matter: his dreams

Might be god's or his own.

Still, every sleep was a practice death:

Eternal and alone.