A night without sleep, spent
fretting over stories. About
words that are not my own.
An hour wasted on pleasure.
The winter sun and how it still
warms my back. The women I
have been privileged to lose
but still miss. A bowl of overcooked
oatmeal, a palmful of brown sugar,
a few runnels of cream. The
impossible misery of being unable
to say what I mean to say. The
surprise that absence still hurts.
The precise ecstasy of such pain.