writing - wriding

sometimes i get a little bothered that all my nights end the same way: talking to brandon, falling asleep on him, having him be patient with me as i start to snooze at some particularly witty or keen observation he's making (it's not my fault, i swear). maybe waking up a few hours later with him still on the line, sleeping softly on the other end, whispering to him to wake up and putting to words all the gentle touches we would rather be doing instead, but that we cannot.

then i think, man, i'd like to end my nights like i used to in the single days and just write a good long journal entry but then, i have a night like this.  when we don't end up talking on the phone and i do have the time, and i sit here rapping my bitten, nail-less fingertips on my laptop without a drop of a syllable to say.

all my journal entries lately have at some point, "i don't know where to begin..."
"i don't have much to say..."
"...what to talk about....?"

guess i am just tired.  guess it is winter blues, the season of slow movements.  today my body ached all morning and i felt cold to my bones in my square office.  lost somewhere inside of my elbow, or my hip, maybe even my collarbone.  little summer dayana rests in the creases where it's warmest and leaves all the other parts to grow frigid and detached, extra limbs of a willow tree left outside in the wind while the roots stay snuggled into the soil

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everything is a struggle, right?  right.