It is four hours to midnight and it is taking all of my will to write instead of sleep. It’s late. Maybe too late. But failing to post seems momentous. Like allowing the boulder to roll over me.
I’m cold and I huddle under my soft Raven blanket. Socks on, the too loud TV of the front room pushes past the paper thin door, prompting one to choose between quiet and cold. The fan goes on, the white noise drowning out the irregular and unwelcome noise of other people.
I have desires that seem chaste. To hold her in my arms, to make her safe. But hopes seem as lies and no such thing is possible. I can no more will her to see me as enough than I can will her to see herself as I do. Or perhaps, I’m just not what she wants, not enough to actually be with me anyway.
I’m huddled in the cold and noise and try to slip away, into dream. Into other lives. Where hope still lives. And the possible is not so im-.