Journal intime: the story of a lost sleep

by Charlotte E. Wilde

December 9th, 4:32AM

At night when sleep makes itself a stranger I count your breaths like seconds; a hum and sigh to metronome the rhythm of a rabid mind.

‘Slow-ohh-your-seh-helf’ they sigh.

One. two. ten.

keep the pace. I write the volume of your lungs on the smallest rib of my right side.

December 14th, 3:21AM

At night when I forget the feel of mindlessness I plane towards the twitching of your fingers.

Three. Five. Seven.

I’ve lain still enough to paint a watercolor of your secrets between the angles of my hips.

December 23rd, 5:19AM

Tonight I imagine myself a character in your dreams. We waltz, twirling through hayfields and up mountains striped with telephone lines as though we were Moses splitting humanity’s red sea.

One two three, one two three, one two three one…

The needled landscapes of your dreams have been etched onto the blank page of of my collarbones.

December 29th, 2:34AM

At night when my mind ticks through all the many pasts and presents I feel your heat and imagine myself sinking into you without a ripple. Waiting wordlessly for you to whisper what key or code unlocks such restful slumber.

Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

I’ve wanted to open your mind like a book and papier-mâché the chapters over my eyes.

December 30. 6:21AM

Tonight while you lie still I keep watch. It’s a lonely tower and a somber state, but consolation comes on padded feet and sleep, like an elephant, never forgets her hostess gifts.

One, one, two.

Our story is written somewhere in the sand.