If you ask about sleep: poorly. Or thinly, maybe. Often when I sleep it feels as if I travel, and last night was a long road on which leaves were falling. It's better now, after walking and with a coffee nearby.
When I don't want to write - as now - it's because there is something I don't want to (or just can't yet) say. I woke up repeatedly and looked at the clock, as if worried, as if . . . what? And talked to you as I walked - literally out loud - not really wondering, is this okay? Certain lonelinesses are more than I can bear, at this time.
Better but not by much. I can't really handle the writing, but I have to handle the writing now. Nor do I feel safe with the need that is becoming obvious. The distance is a blessing, but for me it is starting to shrink, or fade.
What does that mean exactly? Maybe I am a leaver but what are you? I don't leave so much as fall back and watch from a distance what I believe I was never worthy enough to have. Nor can I stand another loss.
Each sweetness unhinges me a little more. Each sentence carefully written somehow reminds me it's okay. Or it will be. Though when, I cannot say.
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