the tuft and needle mint mattress can kiss my black ass.

A few months ago, bedtime was my favorite thing and now I don’t sleep.

The worst part of my night these days is going to bed.

It comes up and out of nowhere. That stretch and final yawn— the “alright, it’s about that time” of it all. Exhaustion is certain, sat patient and waiting, right behind my eyes. Heavy and fogged over, having made haste in only a moments notice.

When it’s time for bed these days, there’s a distinct difference in how things look now and just a few months ago. These days, the sun will disappear and I find myself frozen outside of the bedroom door, hoping you’ll keep it open for awhile longer. Part of me prays for an invitation back into our bed. Praying for an invitation that I know won’t come, to a God who doesn’t seem to be listening. And so I shuffle about, underfoot with myself. Right outside the bedroom door. The bedroom door that used to be the office door until it became the door to mark my exile and then the bedroom door, yours. You took it over because it was only right I guess that you get the bigger room. Your computer needs the router after all. And where else would you go when you can hardly stand to lo—

There’s a divot in the floor here, where I tend to stand. A part of the floor board that’s raised. Like a crack in the foundation. Beveled up but subtle, you won’t know if you don’t look. I have a knack for finding these sorts of things. Dips in the floors of the homes we find our way into, spots where the ground seems to be giving way. Back in our 100 year old house, in the hallway, you could find the rot in between the mudroom and the bedroom. Small and sloping, a little valley in laminate, like too much water sat in one spot once upon a time but not exactly long ago. It had give and take. Like the foundation was laid, but not quite right. More bounce than you’d expect of hardwood, which brings to mind a few questions about the home’s grounding. What it’d seen over all those years, what was just below the surface. Which really just reminds me of you and us and this when I think on it for too long. When my feet find the mismatched panels in the floor of this new house, a slope right in the hallway, this time it’s a fork in the road, between my bedroom and yours. Maybe the rot was always there, the water was left to sit for too long but here… it’s structural.