On my way home the wind is in my face. I push. It laughs. I strain. I look at the grass along the canal and think of sleep. I can see myself in it now. Curled up and content. No worry. But I turn a deaf ear to its call. I’m not ready to give up. Maybe tomorrow.
Head on a pillow and clothes on the floor I sweat and shiver, something is wrong. I want someone to call, to come save me, but the woman who used to won’t and the one that will is too far away. This is my future, drool going cold on the sheets, muscles stiffening. I pass out hoping I wake up. I need to make things right.
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