Last night I roused restlessly, feeling a vexing tickle from the prospect of a son, awakening too soon and unable to return to my careless sleep state. I inched closer to my darling-dear and snaked my arms over his unconscious body, pressing my chest to his back, my sore breasts comforted by his warmth. Between my legs, my hands, and my shoulders I smell like him--not quite stable, but the musk of wanting temperate births and deaths to play house in our hope chest; blankets for our unnamed/ungendered baby, our parents' blessings.
"Something will happen and you'll write about it."
The constant droning hum of a fan. The pre-dawn stillness that blankets everywhere dawn reaches--even the stuffy apartment where the view is eye level with similar tenements. Light misty rain slickening the sidewalk. His sleep-breaths and his sand-colored body crooked like a drooping sunflower.
Absolutely nothing happened and I wrote about it.
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