Languid Arisings

I woke up this morning and, quite unexpectedly, found myself thinking of you. I use “thinking” loosely insomuch as a description for when unconscious thoughts, lingering on with the last ripples of my fading delta waves, seep through into the already murky waters of waking consciousness and are given recognizable form by… I don’t know. My soul?

In any case, there I was, facedown on my bed at 7:15AM, trying to navigate what the next appropriate somatic response after silencing my alarm was, and there you were. A hazy amalgamation of details I already knew; the light of your eyes, the shape your smile, the angles of your posture, and the unknown aspects left to the devices of my interrogative imagination. Was your skin as milky soft as I imagine it to be? Would it’s already remarkable color become more-so in the pre-dawn light leaking through my window? Does your hair fan out like I imagine it would? As wisps of constructive aether attempt to give you form, trying to decide if you are clothed or naked (and if I played any part in whatever the answer is), a realization started to form.

It took a moment, a miserable, exhausted, resentful, moment, to realize that my current state and capacity had nothing to do with the fact that I didn’t have answers for those questions, and probably never will. So I rose and began the rote series of gestures that have encompassed every morning as of late.

Thank you, though, for that brief moment of fantasy between known and unknown, then, now, and maybe later, alive and dead.