Small Room

This small room.

Daylight, cold and barren, fills gently against the walls and over the bed and across my face.

The tops of skeletal trees from the bottom of the window and horizontal six thick black wires all touched with snow and ice.

A house plant I can't name in the corner of the window. A cat with three feet curled soft and asleep next to me. A pile of books. A basket of sleep medication and pain killers and life ephemera. The absence of a ghost retched weekly to life from some memory, some bottle, some sum of many and wasted lives.

This small room and a moment of peace.

Close my eyes. Inhale. A meditation in a moment. Exhale. Open my eyes.

Take it when I can.

A year ago I was some one else. In a dim and nicotine stained room in Texas, packed full of anti-anxiety and anti-depressant medication. Gripping tightly the bed sheets and the hope and some fucking job and some fucking need I didn't understand.

A year before that I was someone else. Drunk and screaming. High and alone and never alone. Glass to walls. Staring out from rooftops and seeing nothing. Nothing forever. Wasting into the mold in my basement, dissolving into the trash of my home. Screaming.

A year before that I was someone else. Singing. Exploring. Living. In love with you and the world as I came to see it and as I thought it should be.

A year before that I

A year before that

Before that.

Before that.

An eon.

This small room, an unimaginable distance between all of me.






This small room and the gentle breathing of a cat, curled next to me. Daylight on my face. Someone else, and soon someone else again.

This is okay. Now.