I worry that the brush strokes of smeared creams and vines and violets that flow over my comforter will branch and grow roots beneath, enclosing me alone there forever, as I lay in bed watching the first lights of the day slowly creep through the glass behind me, over the humble disarray of the room...
Despite the heat of august nights, I feel the chill of morning and cover my bare shoulders, wrapping it all around, gently but tightly so as not to feel the space or the absence...
I missed the 4 am cry of the waking birds and only now hear their distant pizzicato...
softly squeaking guitar strings hum while the Quiet Is the New Loud fellows murmur their tales into the air...
I crawl out to silence the fan so that I can hear the breeze outside my window...
and then I remember...
his name was the wind.