bones sinking like stones

i sit at my kitchen table, drawing patterns across the grains of wood with my fingers, and it all comes rushing out.

three months of experiences and heartache and anger and frustration and having to hide my feelings and dancing at three am and bad food and siva and music and the boys and whiskey and money and groceries and the bus and issues with papers and confusion and clarity and factoids and the weather and movies and the rare jewel of a smile and just everything spills out.

afterwards i sleep for fourteen hours. the sleep of the dead.

but then she's told me exactly what i needed to hear, so maybe it's not the sleep of the dead. maybe it's just a well deserved respite. maybe it's a healing sleep. maybe it was me letting everything go.

maybe it wasn't even maybe.