November 10, 2003
Chorus
You reached for me in the middle of the night. It wasn't love you wanted, just then, but the comfort of my body close and warm; to still my coughing fits with your fist, wrapped around mine, together pressed against my ribcage. Later, you would sit up, startled from a dream, your ability to formulate a coherent sentence warning me of the sleepless night you had passed.
You must've kept glancing at the clock, for it was you who turned off the alarm, whispering to me that it was 8 a.m., time for me to get up and ready for school.
Do you know how much it hurt to leave you there, a kiss planted on your prickled head not enough to convey to you all my love that morning? This morning. Every morning.
I didn't meant to get you sick. We shared the bed, and later the Nyquil. Could you have expected any different?
I have been all but a faded shell of my creative self of late. Not even the weakest of metaphors has gone slipping through my fingers and thus transfered to my pen. No, I have spent my time clutching a high lighter and marking the genius of others. I have a few lines of a story running around in my head, a few different stories, and none of them the right one.
O. Night. Divine.
astera at 11:14 p.m.