I Sleep With My Window Half Open

I sleep with my window half open,
Not so wide as to embrace the cold, 
But not closed completely;
As to commit to eight hours in one room.

And that bubble,
Which starts from my feet, my toes,
Not my stomach,
Rises up.
Into my forearms, my forehead.

So that it clouds not just my peripherals, 
But makes a home inside the tunnel it has left me.

All consuming.

And that bubble,
Which starts in my toes,
Which trembles and teases across the balls of my feet,
Changes me.

For a moment, I am transformed.
Deer in headlights.
The bubble in my forehead bending my thoughts as they 
Rise up.

So that these thoughts are no longer my own;
They have been bent and twisted like light travelling through water.
Refracted.

So that I become a fracture too,
A small part of my whole.

I sleep with my window half open,
This room cannot hold my spectrum for eight hours whole.