speaking in a southern drawl (but not really)
03 October 2004
1:48 a.m.
Soon I shall crawl into bed and sleep the sleep that comes after a day of loving and crying--a day of spending yourself from one extreme to another like a too-small-for-life weekly allowance.
I shall crawl into bed full of Portugese Vinho Tinto and a sleeping pill or two, and I will sleep until something pulls me from my dreams, be it nightmare or sunlight or yearning.
I shall crawl into the middle of the bed, cover myself with down, and hold to my clamoring chest a pillow that could be the body of a lover, but never the breath and soul of her.
This night is blue-grey and wet. I have wept. Still yet, winter will come, and spring, and summer, and we will be back here again, grown like vines to a solitary wishing star.