I only walked downstairs because I had no sheets for my bed – a side effect of having done laundry earlier and neglected to pull everything out of the formerly white dryer that barely works – and now I find myself staring out the window again – a window that dumbly stares back from the sepia shadowed darkness outside. I'm only twenty. I shouldn't feel this old, but Becket keeps chanting in my mind – "She comes in the ashes Who loved could not be won Or won not loved." Tonight it's not the coffee that keeps me awake – awake again, again because insomnia is easier to watch than my dreams. I can't remember the last time I really slept – slept without waking up to a cold room and an empty pillow, made colder and emptier by my blank eyes watching where you once were, where you are still when my eyes – cracked with bleeding red rivulets of oh so tired – finally shut.

04/13/2002

Posted on 04/13/2002
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