Posted on April 15, 2010


I’m so anxious to slide my feet into cold sheets and find warmth from on the other side of the bed that when the lights are all green before I get there, I feel the universe is pushing me towards home and that my life is a tunnel.

I wake at four with rambling pain in my leg and dreams of adopting a little girl who changes size everytime I see her.
She is the size of cookie, a snow pea, a toddler, and only sometimes a newborn.
They call her after a flower, but whatever flower they call her, it is always the wrong one.
Everytime I see her she is looking at me with brown eyes so dark, it’s as if she has black marbles sewn into her peach face.

(They call to me through my twisting sleep.)

I find the right pill without turning the light on and eventually fall asleep on the couch, feeling like the cavities that arrive in my soul sometimes when I am lonely might be filled by those black marbles.

(There is nothing more.)

I am yanked into morning by the radio.
It’s bright outside now.
I go back to the cold sheets, happy, and without pain.

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