She cries. I go to her. My eyes are still computer-screen blind so I see no shadows. No dimensions. No textures. Just black, flat and deep. I plunge my hands through the night, feeling for her form. Here she is. Her cheeks are cold.
I sit in the rocker with her body perpendicular to mine and curled into me. A soft C, like in center, like a sigh.
I could reach for my phone, find something to read. I often do. But I don't feel like ingesting anything. Instead, I close my eyes and tip my chin to the ceiling, counterposing the day.
And there they are, bits of thought spinning in slow motion all around me. Dust motes in the sun, in the dark. I reach up to press one between my thumb and forefinger but my motion exhales it end over end across the room.
I let it go and lower my hand to rest on her head, fingers running through her hair.
