Solitary Unconfinement

And so, as I thrash and throe in bed,
Seeking alignment with slumberbum leys,
I whisper my sorrows into my pillow
In lieu of an ally's sentient ear;
For my only confidants these days are objects,
Inanimate furnishings and the like:
A cushion, a nightstand, a clock on the dresser,
Though sometimes it may be a character
In a book I'm reading, a shadow-confessor
Who listens with patience before he moves on,
Resuming a fictional life on the page,
Just as I must return to this lifelong sentence,
Filling volumes of loose-leaf reality.