One… two… who knows how many.

I take a breath.  Eight p.m.  Feels like my first breath of the day.
I try to think of nothing.  That’s hopeless.
I take another breath; think of him instead.  Choosing it deliberately feels like a small victory – instead of the thoughts sneaking up on me, slapping me in the face, overwhelming me like a cold dumping wave.


His body hard against mine, shivering in the southern ocean.  Laying my head against his shoulder, legs out behind me – floating seaweed, suddenly wrapped around a rock.
Aware of wanting to drift with the current, not strangle him, not cling.
He is shivering, and every motherly part of me, warm, insulated as women are, wishes I could pass on my heat to him.

Another breath.  The crickets sing.  Dusk brings a chill through the window.

I think of being naked.  Wrapped in a towel, watching him in the mirror; learning the post-shower routine of another someone new.
I dry from the ankles up.  He’s already half-dressed, and I catch myself staring a moment before he does.   His eyes ask of me the same question my mind keeps singing.  How did these worlds collide?

The closest crickets stop, though I hear more in the distance.  I wonder how long before the cold brings months of silence.

An ocean, the river, a shower.  Have we kissed in the rain?  Surely… but I can’t recall.

Night breathes closer, and I find myself wishing for a storm.


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x





All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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