Stay up with me (is that a blush or are you just happy to see me?)
by Charlotte E. Wilde
There’s a sweet-spot in my sleeplessness, somewhere between ten too early and three too late, where I’m certain I become clairvoyant. There’s this one perfect, shivering instant hovering between a thought or remnant of a phrase where my fingers twitch in beat to the scattered dimension of my distraction and linger on towards total mindless meditation. It’s blinding, stark white like a near-death experience, reading illuminated endless future potential for action and retroactive possibilities of change. It exists, but I never find it when I’m looking just as I never have figured out how to keep it for more than the span of a blink or a sigh.
I suppose I must resign myself to yet another night of hopeful anticipation, a would-be seeker wandering well-mined moments alone. Its 3am or thereabouts but numbers cease to hold meaning past their honeymoon which blooms like a pumpkin at midnight on the dot.
So here I am, awake but day-dreaming lost, airfield circling and horse whisker kissing but wondering, wandering yesterday’s yellow brick roads. Tonight I promise not to drift if you’ll only turn back, come hold sway in my helical thoughts where the only score kept will be the one set to the grey-toned reel of our memory spool. Enjambed surrealism with inter-titles born of an Underwood– the flaws of which remain unconcealed by hindsight and such lamented imperfections can only be construed as ‘to be reviewed’ on this, our relentless quest for rose-filtered perfection.
Then it happens– two ticks ’till sweet-spot o’clock and I begin to remember how, somewhere in all that rain, I forgot the importance of sleeplessness at all. Only then does sleep look over her shoulder; grinning innocence like the dearest of fair-weather friends she kisses me blithely and wraps me warmly in her arms.
Neither will I remember the path, neither will I pursue a dream, but my fingers are now hung with rosegold nails and I never forget a kindness or a face.