My sleep for tonight is over--an hour caught between midnight and one with fitful dreams of fog lights and water the color of ink.
There is a silence tonight that weighs heavy with a panic of leaving something undone, unsaid, untouched, and it makes me want to weep.
As I sit here in the dark, in the nude, I do weep. I am weeping.
But today was a good day--a beautiful day: cancer is not part of my world and her enigmatic smile and her grace.
But the panic encroaches, and it begins to take a form, shifting in the shadows around me--and in truth, it is a shadow, itself.
It's the panic of the day before--of early this morning of not knowing the results of her biopsy, and it's all the thoughts that attached themselves like barnacles--the thoughts that question life and death and reasons.
It's thoughts as cliched and poignant as: What would it be like to exist in a world barren of her?
It's thoughts as simple and true as: It would cease to be whole, and I would spend the rest of my life walking aimlessly until my own death bid me rest.
How foolish these words seem, even to me. How they mock any logical thought within me. After all, we've spent months not communicating--not talking--I've pressed myself flat against walls in fear that I'd run into her.
And yet, I wanted nothing more than to run into her.
I wanted nothing more than to be whole within myself and to love her, as I am meant to do.