my bed became a sanctuary of nothingness. But I fear emptiness. Its close. A paralysis of indecision permeates like frigid winter through drafty walls. I decide to sleep in.
Occasionally turning to see the clock- minutes, hours pile up like dirty dishes.
During broad daylight, the distant noise of a cessna impedes into my room, defining a vast separation. One, maybe two people up there have an interesting life, an important destination. Listening to their flight gives me something to do. When they are gone, I have nothing left but a fingerprint stained glass of water.
By late afternoon, the lost day vaguely disturbs like seeing one shoe on a highway.
Either painful or a waste, nothing good about it.
Finally light dims. A broken clock is right twice in a day, but since I'm the one who stopped, the clock catches up with my uselessness in bed.
The period on the sentence that I have, truly, accomplished nothing.
Darkness justifies my nap. A relief as I can finally end the day with some sleep.
I dream of being infinite, traversing the universe a narrow beam of light. You pass me by a little faster, but turn around so we can create time together, to become here.
I dream of when we camped by a river's waterfall. Half awake my eyes can see the tent filled with soft green light. No light source but bright enough to see by, everything in the tent and you sleeping peacefully. Logic corrects me, says it a New Moon and I shouldn't be able to see anything. My eyes agree and slowly darken, blind to the color of love's aura that I can still feel.
I wake. Pour one bowl of cereal instead of two, remembering when you looked up from breakfast and said, "let’s ride our bikes across the country," just like that. And just like that we did, halfway anyway. 1500 miles was just the beginning. I love the places you take me.
I call you up. "Let's not call them dealbreakers, ok?"