Nighttime Monkey

I can’t catch my monkey when it wakes me at baker’s hours.
Running around my bed and screeching about lack and regret.
Or regret of lack or lack of regretting. I don’t really know. It gets so chaotic.
The bedsheets twisted and the night air tinged with the scent of anxiety.
I lay quietly and feign sleep then death. Tricking it into settling beside me
To spend the remainder of the night eyeing each other warily.