Still Life
You can’t sleep, again. It’s the third night in a row this week. Fourth, in fact, if you counted the week beginning from Sunday. But you don’t; that would only make it worse. It feels like hours have passed while you’ve been lying. Uncomfortable. Awake. Still but not quite…still? You know what you mean. Hours since you switched off the light and clambered in, creating a space between the mattress and the sheet for your own body to fill. Left flat, obsolete, otherwise. Sighing, feeling the slight rise of your rib cage as your skin touches the cotton underneath in an ever so slightly different place each time your lungs inflate and deflate. Reminding you of your body. Of your life. You grope through the darkness that envelopes you, your hand poking through the air beside your face, to the side of the bed you no longer share with anyone. In the immediate darkness your hand meets the mess of things that lie jumbled by your pillow, entitled, more than you yourself are, to t...