the point is can you come up with anything in an hour, a half hour, in a minute? Can you come up with something worth writing, saying, in so much time. Can you come up with anything? Can you come up for air? Are you drowning? Can you come up for air?
I breathe and you leave. Our daughter turns in the night between us, careful, careful, each of us on edge, furthest away from each other with her between us. She turns in the night, one side to the next, arms out stretched, whisper fingers raking the air. Looking, grasping in the dark. Are you there mommy? Are you there daddy? She tosses and turns, scratch, scratch a back here, scratch, lightly, lightly, a face there. She tosses and turns, fitfully, throwing fits from side to side, restless and I cannot sleep any longer on this edge.
Scratch scratch. Scratch scratch. I’d like to be done with this. Is this all there is? It’s all seemed very dark, one long dark night punctuated with short bitter streaks of daylight. One year done, another four to go. I miss the sun. I miss you. The disconnect is profound and sharp in relief that I cannot find any relief any where.