“Some days it is amazing,” I say, flipping the pencil back and forth, under and over fingers, “you can drag yourself out of bed with all you have to do, have to deal with.”

Face down in the space between us, you hide an embarrassed smile.

“What is the alternative, stay asleep, ignore everything, let it all wash away? It sounds wonderful.”

Lifting your head, you stare past me and outside of this moment, drifting in possibility.

“There is always a choice,” you say. “Always an instant, a flickering of understanding where I see what I could be.”

A dark desert, wind blown and drifted up and over through, hot and desolate.

A redwood forest, towering trees stretching to the sky, pressing and powerful.

The bottom of a dried up well, old and forgotten, broken disarray, bricks strewn carelessly.

A hand sewn quilt, tied with purple yarn, folded and placed gentle in the corner of the sofa, ready to envelope.

The cover of a favorite novel, smell of old paper and ink, intoxicating.

The air just after a last kiss, charged with spent anticipation, a heavy sigh.

You could be counterfeit, chaos. You could be nothing, letting the twisting be more than your arm. You could give up, quit, descend. You could change the world with potency. You could be meek, submissive, subservient. You could be a first touch, a final wish, restless sleep, a knife.

About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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