My memory is a wreck, like my hair the morning after yesterday.
Cracker colored light wades through the thick curtains; shrapnel shards
of it on the floor, strewn like highlights cut from a beauty school mistake.
I am rolling away from it: memory, yesterday’s tomorrow, the light. I am tucking
the badly used motel foam pillow between my knees, hugging my elbows. I am ignoring
my thirst, the clock, the tightness coiled like a spring in my heart, the tightness
that keeps it beating only half way, a tick without the tock,
a metronome stuck on the downbeat.
I only sleep a little these days and my dreams are short, shocked trailers.
Their story lines have no arc. They move from a to b along a brief line and
they leave no myths, no lessons in their wakes. The cast is a bored crew of wraiths,
same as today’s yesterday’s night.
My eyes are blurry. The lack of focus feels like comfort, like what comfort
might feel like. Like my imagination of that.
The 50/50 sheets crackle. These sheets don’t rustle. More like a fire’s crackle
and less like a wind’s rustle. Mercifully I feel the mangy bedspread is just about
off the end of the bed. The alarm blinks at me, and in me, the alarm blinks.
And then your arm…
along the back of my head, through my hair, your fingers.
I remember the time, it was 3am, we made it to an awkward forgiveness
before we passed out.
I am feeling for you across the empty space I wake up with. I am feeling for you
behind me on a soggy Sunday morning, feeling for you in my disjointed awakening.
Feeling you touch me, imperfect, awakening tired, both of us still half mad, still bruised.
Feeling you turn me, turn to me, hold me.