In the middle of the night I wake needing to know more about Napoleon's Russian campaign, worried about the losses we can't see looming because we're so focused on being proud of doing badly at what could still be done worse. Worried about how many more winters we're going to walk right into without our coats or our common sense.
In the middle of the night I wake burning with shame over every sentence I have ever said out loud, vowing to look into silence and forgetting again by morning.
It's just that we've spent all this time growing new skins out of knives and glitter, out of early morning birdsong and long quiet afternoons, out of grief and triumph and laughter through tears. We're so shiny and pink in the parts that have grown tentatively off of what is deservedly rough and gnarled and I worry, you know, that we're going to lose what we don't even know that we have yet. That I will miss a chance to note you sparkling softly in the sunlight.
And so in the middle of the night I wake abruptly, sure that someone has just spoken my name. There's a comfort in being the smallest point in the darkest part of the night, and if I pause just right, in the space between breaths, I can hear you through the darkness. I hope you know that I know you're wonderful.
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