morning

part I
I shut my door to the light and crawl back to my soft single bed. My hand over my ear, I press my head into the pillow because if my head is lodged deep in my mattress, maybe I won't be able to hear anything except the blood pumping through the palm of my hand. If I can't hear them, they don't exist.

My mind struggles for darkness, a sleep that will not come because, once awake in the morning, I can never fall back to sleep. Stubborn, I try harder, counting backwards from one thousand in my head, as if the numbers could erase this indecent attempt at morning.

If I could fall asleep, I could wake up again. The sun could crack through my blinds like a hesitant child. My eyelashes could part, revealing the room, blurry and unformed with no glasses for aid. I could glance at my watch and smile because nothing worth crying over had happened yet today. I could reach for my glasses as my feet hit the floor and stumble to the window as I fit them onto my face. My fingers could part the crack between the blinds farther, my eye fitted to that opening like it belonged there. Like it belongs anywhere. I could smile at the rain and turn to reach for the door.
To reach for breakfast.
To reach for the day.
To reach for infinity.

But I don't get a do over. There's only one chance to wake up on the right side of the bed. It's gone.


part II
You walk in, a towel draped around your body. You're dripping with cleanliness and a sense of freshness. I ask if I should leave. You respond with indifference. I turn away to grant you the small amount of privacy that I can give.

I keep writing, my words scrawling out on the page like baby sea turtles dashing for the ocean, desperate and awkward. My hands is cramping. I ignore it. I'm good at that.

Light fades into the room, like it's the end of the movie. I can never escape that ever present light for long. I can imagine your fingers twisting and twirling the plastic wand to restore the sun's reign to this room.

What if I wanted to go back to sleep, I ask.
Close your eyes, you say softly.

I do. Slowly, savoring every moment of coming darkness, my windshield wiper eyelids close on my portal to this world. Loss of sight does not equate to loss of memory, however. I can still remember this morning. My eyelids cannot erase it. They try.

Then I realize. I don't need to erase it, to start over, start fresh. Escaping this morning would be wrong, a crime. It's tempting but impossible so I reach for that doorknob a second time today, hoping that take two will exceed the first. Not a do over but a glimmer of hope that second tries can work out, too. I grasp the doorknob, turn and pull because I still have ten minutes left of this morning.
Ten minutes that are mine to create.