I wake up in the middle of the night.
I am finished. I am whole.

Outside there is rain — rain, and cars, and cold wind. I leave my dreams pressed to my pillowcase — I wear their lines against my face. And suddenly, somewhere between one and two a.m., all the memories mean nothing. Like my heart is a light-switch that suddenly turned itself off,

and I am good at darkness;

and in the absence of its light, my eyes can finally adjust, and the huge sea of something is nothing but my collapsed clothes on the floor. And I want to bring myself closer. So I do.

I do.


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