Written In the Morning After 16 Hours of Sleep

For somewhere in the deep pocket of bed, the swell of it, rising from sleep, is a way into the world which is  not usual. It is not clothes and coffee and wallet. It is not regrets or stains or making money. Somewhere in the the deep pocket of bed, the swell of it, is a new body. I glisten from her kisses. Some morning I will accept it and follow her into the middle of nowhere.

This morning, the light just so, was a robe of forgetting. Remembering. Sometimes the only way to live is alone and through her, a tree in the middle of nowhere with whiskey bottles of honey. I will drink it and become braver. I will not remember anything but the ache for the world in which we travel and keep traveling until the end of the ocean. This part I cannot write about.

I imagine the dive into her. Everyone is carrying something on their backs then told to let it go. Wave goodbye to them like children on a shore but children who can kill you at the same time as be your best friend. This will be the hard part. Saying goodbye to what is human for the robe of holy which I saw this morning but couldn’t touch.

Someday, I will travel after bed and the pocket of newness and become braver and less human, more wave-like. More whale-like. Given-into. Without clothes or stains or wallets or regrets.

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