Sleep Cycle

We cannot push ourselves away from this quiet, even in our sprees of inattention, the departing passengers stubbing out their smokes, arrivees in tears, lots of cellophane, the rumpus over parking. Wind scrapes leaves across the road, first flashes of snow, it is dark then it’s really dark. Forgive me for not writing for so long, I’ve been right beside you, one of the vaguer divinities blocking your way with its need to confess all its botched attempts at love, what started the whole mess. I love this place, its absurd use of balustrade, the chairs that dig into the spine, motorcyclists propping their drunk girlfriends in the sun, men playing timed chess with themselves, the guarantees and warnings that entice us to the brink of what they warn about. But we can do no more than pass through these rooms and their sudden chills where once a plea was entered almost unintentionally that seemed at last to reveal ourselves to ourselves, immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.