It often starts with a small soundMaybe a little putt, putt or a sighSome nights a freight train comes roundI'm tired and need sleep, but no, I cryI do have choices, move to another roomA pillow over my head, maybe earplugs tooIt's worse now that everything is in bloomAllergies, apnea, find out, but no not youI wander through most days, eyes blearyLove only goes so far, until thoughts creep inNight after night, robbing me...
