I sit and stare, half asleep
Wishing you were sleeping
I see a speck, a mark
On the kitchen floor
Small and black it mocks me.
I sit and rock in an attempt
To put you to sleep
But I can't take my eyes away.
Staring I see it grow, move
But is it real or a product
Of my own motion, my mind.
It seems to squirm and grow
With every breath I take.
Writhing on it's tile,
Not crossing and mark
That might let me know
If any motion was real.
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