Like a Bug Hiding in the Pages

It’s midnight. All the titles are filled.
None hangs alone above a blank space.
There’s no room for new lines to slide in,

And outside there is no outside sky,
Only that fog like the clammy hand
Of one of the earthbound deities

Worshipped as creator of all things
But getting more nervous than jealous
The further past your own thoughts you see.

Better to slide in between the sheets,
Like someone who knows, behind the fog,
No dreams, like this line slid in between.