The moon on my face, your breath at my back.

Always the first to push off from the light
The fastest car, the quickest start
I see them in my rear-view.

I see you
Behind me.

so what is there to rush off to?
what is so important
that I have to be the first one
every time?

why do I have to make sure you are behind me?
why do I have to go first?

must get there.
what is so important?

the moon hangs heavy in the sky tonight
she hangs low
so low
a half moon, like a milky breast
so big, grazing the horizon
tempting, teasing, calling my attention.

against my better judgment
my eyes flick to her
the moon
the heavy, half bust in the sky
over and over again.

as the car pulses onward
every time faster than all of the
rest of you
i steal endless glances
of the moon
calling me to her.

urging me to go faster.

challenging me to get to her first.

instead of watching the things
i should be watching
instead of keeping my eyes on
what is most important

i am making sure I rush onward
i have to get there fast
beat you
beat them
get my prize.

that is what I’m doing, right?
rushing forward because I have something to gain.

or maybe
the truth is that
i am fleeing what lies behind.

the moon is just my scapegoat.
an easy target.
a pleasant distraction.

either way.
I’m fast.

A decidedly different post than this past Friday’s.

I am sitting here, at my computer, with my brow furrowed, writing.

It is 1:18 am.

About 30 minutes ago, and after struggling fitfully for some time, my eyes opened wide (imagine the cartoon sound-mixture of breaking glass and squealing brass horns, and picture red veins in my eyes) and I gave up trying to go back to sleep with the buzzsaw next to me droning on endlessly.

Annoyed, I snatched up my pillow.  I resisted the rather strong temptation to hold it over John’s face.

Instead, I quietly (can stomping be referred to as quiet?) left the room and stumbled down the stairs (YAY FOR STAIRS!NOT.) to the couch.

After having finally quieted the seemingly endless stampede of noisy elephants in my brain that is my mind refusing to shut the HELL up when I want to go to sleep (does that ever happen to you?) I was starting to drift back towards the edge of slumber.  In fact, the wispy tendrils of sleep sent by the sandman were already winding their way into my hair and tickling my cheeks.

Suddenly, a small sound crept down the stairs and around the bend, hurrying to reach me before I escaped to my dreamworld.  It grew quickly, and (was I imagining it?) truimphantly it danced across my face with heavy feet, ripped its way down the auditory canals and bitch slapped my eardrums.  

I was not slow to identify it as the evil.snoring.from.hell.

It is completely normal and sane to lie on your couch half-naked well past midnight, biting your lip, clutching your pillow, and thinking about putting some “special powder” in your husband’s morning coffee.

I am so not deranged and psychotic.

*cartoon-sound: cuckoo clock*