Get up.
Well, help to get up.
Sometimes, used to feel and think this early in the morning. Tactile sensations relaying back to an old brain. Sheets. Blanket. Skin of another. She’s sleeping peacefully, and we’re happy to let her do so.
Air. Atmosphere. A fresh crisp feeling through callused fingers. Not guiding, but still present. Thoughtful.
Back home. She’s up. Embrace. Feel. She’s warm to the touch, and there’s a playfulness to her frame, how she moves. It can only be one thing, says the brain.
It always was.
Metal. Pot. Pans. Egg. Grabbing and pulling, poking and prodding, mixing and matching. Breakfast.
Draw the water. Reach for a towel. Set up everything. The water’s hot, and steam wafts over the tips of fingers, wrapping around digits. A warm bath is a good place to prune in.
(Even we’re not immune to such things.)
Out. Grab the mat, place it on the hardwood floor. Settle on the knees. Nothingness. Stillness. Maybe a thought here of what’s happened, what the world has become, what-
(The sort of woe we’ve done.)
Up. Put the mat away. It’s time for the rest of the day. Thumb through the pages of a new book, or perhaps an old one. Rest at the sides, keep hanging, thumbs and indexes touching the leather of a jacket.
No work. A day off. Easy. These days are the best ones.
Later, there’s dinner. More metal. Pots. Pans. The vibrations of good conversation. Hold her hand. We talk through touch, and through the words that spill over lips, scarred or full. It can only be one thing, says the brain.
It ends like it began.
Used to feel and think. Tactile sensations relayed back to an old brain. Sheets. Blanket. Skin of another.
Sleep. Stillness. Nothingness.
No more nightmares for us to clutch at.
Just dreams, nice ones.
