The Middle

A couple of days ago I threw all the extra crap off my bed and slept in the middle. I haven't visited that place in a very long time. I wish I could say it felt great and empowering, but it didn't. It felt desolate and vast. I reached out my arms and curled my fingers around the edges. I wondered if he does that. If he curls his fingers and sleeps in the middle. Or if he is...well, I decided to stop wondering.

It's the middle. My body doesn't want to be there. I can feel some strange force pulling it to the side. I wake up and my legs are stretched towards their usual side. The quilt is drifting to the side. The painting is in front of me. I'm wishing I had a smaller bed. Then I wouldn't be reminded of how much extra space there is. How much I can't use. Maybe I should move to the floor.

I can barely reach the phone on my dresser. Sometimes I wish I couldn't reach it at all. Because it often brings bad things. And I never know when that's going to happen. Too bad caller ID can't tell you what kind of conversation it's going to be. I feel far from stuff when I'm in the middle. It's more like swimming. I have to get up to get stuff a lot more.

I thought the middle would bring me some sort of feeling of accomplishment, of new beginning. But for the past two nights I have laid awake. Letting my eyes adjust to the dark, then picking out the light and form of my bedroom. Gauging the new distances to things; the red candle, the painting, the list of books, the mirrors. the music. It's like the physical reality of being alone. The reality that taking half of the bed out of the middle isn't going to make any difference to anyone. The reality that this is really nowhere. And I'm in the middle.