R[H]ope

My hands are tingling when I wake up. They’re throbbing and aching and twitching and vibrating and tingling and they won’t stop. I’m laying on my back with my arms stretched towards the ceiling and my right eye won’t stop twitching and I’m staring and staring and waiting and hoping and praying that you won’t lay down next to me. My mind is a sunburnt peach, soft and sweet and angry and red and sharp and sore at the touch and your touch is too rough. I purse and unpurse my lips, open and close my mouth, open and close my eyes, expand and contract my lungs, and expand and contract and expand and contract and expand and contract and think about hope and how it might be real but hope is not a white light and hope is not a light and the end of a tunnel and hope is not alive and hope is not dead but hope is a rope and the rope is tied to the distant buildings and the distant shores and it feels more like yarn in my palms as I try to grasp firm grips, as I try to find the guide before I slip. Hope is a rope and the rope is tied to the distant buildings and the distant shores and I place my hands one over the other, right left, right, left, right and I can’t see more than my hands as the grasp and grip and slip and twist on this lead guiding me to the sea.