So You Get On With It.

It was 3:30 in the morning and a heavy footstep and clumsy fumbling fingers searching for zippers and buttons told me that he was at it again. His hot, damp breath on the back of my neck annoyed me enough to keep me awake and I had so much guilt about being annoyed by it that that kept me awake, too. Saddness enough for everyone. You don't remember things the way you used to.

The ice clinks into the glass and I don't want to go down with this ship.

I hate thinking back to other times; I hate the defense mechanism that wants me to look back, take stock, size up. I am the space in between wingbeats, I am no closer to figuring things out than I ever have been. What I am leaning toward believing is that there isn't anything to figure out. You just get on with it. One breath, then the next. You will have to figure out how to do this for yourself, too.