today is the day of missing words,
Nyquil,
musings on sin and patience and unspoken things,
voices in the halls and lights on houses,
and the last vestiges of a sore throat.
5 months, 7 days, 56 minutes, and 49 seconds
of half-started plans
and the tiptoes of change;
the memories of shadow-life haunting the corners
realizing I've been Peter Pan in the un-usual way,
living not
watching.
Do I look tired?
"Tired," he says, knowing me, "but happy."
Merry Christmas, in the midst of the
best life.
