Wednesday, 9 November 2011

66) Night Missing You

    As we slept the crescent moon played softly against our faces. It must have tickled me more as I woke gently opening one eye then the next. The world was a blanket of silence and I wondered why I was so awake in the middle of the night again.
    I think I slept through the whole night last night, and maybe the night before, I can’t always remember. I’ve never left notes before this, I’m afraid you might have found them. I don’t know why I would be embarrassed. Lots of people get insomnia.    No wind blew through our bedroom’s open windows. The night’s warmth and humidity were standard summer fair. The world was so still even the mosquitoes ceased bumping against the net around our bed.
    Resigned to my fate I slid out of bed without kissing you goodbye, and parted the net. I had a little trouble getting one foot down on to the smooth carpet without slipping, but righted myself quickly.
    I wasn’t hungry, but I made myself a sandwich with left over lamb from dinner. I ate it mechanically and stared out the kitchen window at the garden in the back. The food was gone before I knew it and suddenly I had washed the plate and put it away. I was afraid the clank of dishes might have disturbed your sleep. I assumed I had cleaned the dish, but to be honest I don’t recall doing it.
    Is this just a dream? Maybe that’s where the anxiety comes from. In dreams nothing is solid. You can’t pick up a pen, write something down, give it to someone else and have them read it to you. So maybe this is more for me than you.
    In the next jump cut I found myself out in the garden out by the small stone castle, that one your father gave us when we bought the house. I sat down next to it and leaned against its parapets and wrote some more. I’ll probably tear out the pages before I go in a try to sleep again, it’s all nonsense anyways.
    The night is nice, I like it out here. It’s serene, like a keyhole without a key. I think you might like it.

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