leaves.

though he was not tired. he found himself sleeping through the day. going to his room to read turned into taking a nap. fifteen minute naps became an hour, became two, became waking up the next morning forgetting what time he went to bed. there was no logical explination to this he would tell himself. first his friends, then his family, became concerned. "i must have trouble sleeping" he elucidated when he drifted off in the middle of conversation. at home he began to pace the steps of his kitchen, became his basement, became the cracks and crevices he had never noticed before. and rebuked himself for not noticing, before. he sat outside in a hood and shorts, sitting and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. coughing, he watched the leaves bleeding their green hues to yellow, became red, until they they loosened their grip and descended into the confusion and indistinguishability that is the hard black earth. he would return inside and curse the cold into his clasped palms. he slept through breakfast. at lunch time he smoked cigarettes and convinced himself that he was busy doing something. at dinner time he would forget about dinner and go to sleep because he was tired from working so hard all day. he would wake up in the night. microwaved or cold he would eat anything. his body was weak, his lungs were black, his skin was worn and seemed to be slipping off of his bones and tendons. his throat was dry and it hurt him to urinate. his friends stopped calling. he forget to pay his phone bill. no one called. his family stopped by. one at a time they cried driving home. he stopped turning on the lights in his room, became his hall, became his house. he lit candles. he read by candle light. he began to write. about how he felt, became about what he knew, became about a man that was not tired. but found himself sleeping through the day.