Full of Sound and Fury

It always seems to end up this way, the dearth of night, some words on a page. The rest of the world slumbers lightly as I fold laundry vehemently and smooth the wrinkles failingly and hear your voice reluctantly.


You will come tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow) and I want to fold into myself, a tiny pocket square to bury in the deep deep craters of some forgotten moon. I would tiptoe across galaxies if I could, slip into another universe if I could, delete myself from your address book if I could.

But instead I crawl under dusty beds or moldy cabinets below bathroom sinks and think about the darkness that comes, a comfort, in the exact moment of blowing out birthday candles. A wisp of breath, the life, a wish, close my eyes, rock myself tight, grab a pen, try to write about the laundry I’m folding even though it’s dirty, still not clean. There are wrinkles that I will never be able to smooth while the rest of the world–even you–tries to sleep.

You will come tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow) but I am not there yet. I’m still buried in the yesteryears of today, of last week, of the stains I can’t erase.

I want your voice to stop echoing, softly–those infant syllables that grow into giants overnight. It is why I don’t close my eyes, why I fold this laundry, why I stare at the moon. Because all I dream of now is you, coming tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow).

You should know it is too soon

 

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