I sat for a long time and stared at myself in the mirror, searching for some kind of direction, like it would suddenly appear, nestled tight in a laugh line, a forehead crease in the sign of an arrow. And I held a handful if lunesta, the moon's beams at their finest, and stared at those chalky orbs, walking their ways into the creases in my fingers. Wanting so badly to swallow them all and finally sleep. But not the sleep of never more--the sleep of you and me and uncontrollable laughter and sobbing until my chest heaves and screaming so loud that my throat burns. Because those are the truly restful sleeps, where I can release the you of me who is so wound tight that you encircle my diaphragm and leaves me struggling for breath. Under your pressure, I have become a shell of myself and wanting only to emerge, if only for a moment of sunlight. But you only release me in the moonbeams, and all that is left is falling.