Wednesday, April 9


I awaken early in the morning, and I'm another person. 

After figuring this out, I move her fingers tentatively and stretch her legs (they're the same size as mine). Her thoughts of morning are about the woodpecker that woke her up and "my hair feels like a halo." She's still sleepy. My thoughts, and some of the last thoughts I will have, are of a rushed goodnight kiss, hot wool socks, and... that I'm glad she's here to replace me. I trust that she'll take better care of my life than I would have been able to.

For the moment, I fight the urge to leave the crowded conscious and try to figure out what actions brought her to me. She seems older and more capable. She has a happier disposition, and it's comfortable. I'm still afraid of the dark so I get up and go to the small, bright bathroom across the hall and drink a glass of water. Then I start trimming the split ends off of my hair.

I wonder how long she can get away with being me before someone says something:
"Are you feeling different?"
"You don't seem like yourself."
"I'm not myself," she might explain. "I'm someone else now."

Then I start to worry if people will be able to recognize her at all.
Or love her...?
Has this metamorphosis destroyed the things that most people love about me?

I experience my job, my boredom, my books, my lovers, and I wake up transformed into someone who is wiser. Usually wiser. Hopefully wiser. Not always happier, but I was lucky this time. How can we expect other people to keep up and love us through [despite] those changes? How can we even be sure that the one we love is not a stranger by now?

What part of her is me anymore?

I've cut a section of my bangs too short, but they'll grow back.

Particular people stand out in the small collection of things that are important to [us]. It would appear that most of my constants are the same as hers. Her hand automatically lifts the glass of water to her face in the way [we] know someone likes. She still acts naturally, but I hope these people can love her the same way they loved me. I hope she still has the ability to love them like I did.

The sun is starting to rise, so I go back to bed to rest awhile more. I'm falling back asleep easily, but before I'm gone, this thought keeps repeating in [our] head:

What if our love is just the space between two atoms? 

I don't know what it has to do with anything or why it makes me feel a little better, but it does.

I'm          gone.



  1. I love that feeling of there being a breezeway between consciousness. Controlled yet not quite controlled. This was dreamy and familiar and lovely and poetic. You, my dear, are a wordsmith.

  2. Found myself reading over your words in the middle of the night last night as an upset stomach was keeping sleep hostage. Your words always remind me to be more in tune with myself. You inspire me to write.