Some nights, she laid on her bed, counting sheep – vague outlines that vanished just as soon as they came. She would wait for the elusive night to take her, only to remain in lucid present, with a mind of whirling thoughts, colors, shapes. Hoping to weigh her brain and body further down into the bed, she would finally get up and find a banana, a piece of bread, granola, the seductive ben and jerry’s sitting innocently in the fridge. Late night munchings were the only way she knew to mute her brain. Weigh down the body so it can feel at peace in an enclosed space. Food coma the hell out of oneself, and sleep will effortlessly find you.
Some nights, she created intricate “what ifs,” tangled past and present faces — of him, some times— of them smiling together. She wondered if her someone was awake to hear the crickets chirping at this hour. If he were a time zone, 300 miles away, or fast asleep under soft covers– in content slumber. She wondered if her someone would make her laugh enough to fill the room with a mellow acoustic rumble. If he would make eggs in the morning, and overdo the oatmeal. If he would make her feel excited, yet safe. How he smelled– overdone with cologne? Or a dewy lemon grass, a fresh “out of the shower” scent? How he would talk — slow and steady, or fast and excited. Cautiously, or spontaneously?
Some nights, she wished she had a glass orb that could show her the way. The ways she would sink, and paddle with tired legs. The next rainfall. The next heart that would shatter beside hers — shards amongst shards of red, white, black. Whether the itch on her arm should be itched. Whether the soap dissolved all the invisible poison ivy oil. Whether a like ever dissolved an unlike.
Some nights, she just wanted her limbs to be innervated and frail. Her mind overworked, packed, numb. To fall into the night soon as softness enshrouded her senses. To finally close her eyes and …
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Art of Medicine 