I wake up, face glazed over with sweat. The air hangs heavy and the box fan hums in the windowsill. My spare pillows are scattered on the floor; I reside on the left side of the mattress, a heap of blankets to the right, thrown off my scrawny bones. In the midst of the nightmare, everything goes flying. It could've been a beautiful night. We could have had dinner on the porch. We could've talked about our dreams. We could've sat with each other after the storm, after the screen door slammed shut and the crickets came to sing their songs. I would've told you that I'm sorry for burning the potatoes. I'm sorry for all of my ridiculous expectations.
Sometimes, I cannot believe where I am. Each time the golden hour comes, I think of a beautiful face, soaking up the rays. I think of an evening that could've been ours to watch the sun go down and talk until it came back up. But I've got an empty house.
Some trickles of expired daylight remind us of everything we've missed while sitting on our hands.
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