You Don't See It.

I stumbled through the dark room crying, thinking about the light from the television on my face, wondering if my tears were illuminated by it, and then about other times I've done the same. Waking up on a couch and facing a grey August morning, my face beautiful in the light, turned away, hidden. Trying to come up with a spontaneous, sorrowful Kerouac haiku in my head. Even this morning, disappointed in the gold first light, casting a perfect shadow on the wall above my pillow. Desperate times call for a desperate, misplaced kind of confidence, I suppose.

Thank you for getting me out of there, for walking with me in the night. It didn't feel as desolate as it would have otherwise, in the middle of the wind and stars.