I was teetering on the velvet edge of sleep,
a soft abyss calling me,
like the last cookie in the jar at midnight
too tempting, too inevitable.

Then
A flicker.
A ghost of a thought.
A déjà vu that never had a first act.

Who am I when I’m almost me but not quite?
Where am I when my room melts
into a hall of mirrors and subway echoes?
Am I awake?
Or am I a dream someone else forgot to finish?

My last thought
it was brilliant, revolutionary,
worthy of TED Talks and bathroom graffiti
but it slipped out of my grasp
like a balloon at a child’s party
drifting up, up, up
mocking me with its helium giggle.

I’m hot.
Sweaty.
Lucid.
Caught between REM and reality,
like a DJ stuck mid-track.

I reach out
my hand passes through the idea.
It’s beyond my touch.
It flutters away,
a moth drawn to the wrong lightbulb.

So here I am,
awake-ish,
with no last thought to crown me queen of the night.
Just me,
this bed,
and a punchline
I’ll never remember.