Too late

It’s probably a little narcissistic, but I dig the way my hands look poised over the keyboard like a cat about to pounce.  I’ve been keeping my nails done lately & it makes me feel that much more elegant as I contemplate the meaning of life on late late nights like this.
At this point I would love to stay up until the sun rises emptying my brain onto the page and watching slender fingers jab out the words. I’d love a glass or two of wine, letting it curl around my mouth until I’m inspired to be poetic about the flavors and all the sexy things they remind me of.
But it’s too late.
Or too early.
Too far gone into my serious routine.
I haven’t slept, but my brain knows that it is already Wednesday. “Hump day” as they call it. Am I over it?
Under it? Like a spell, I am more or less captivated by the week day, office hours, dinner on the table by 6 life we’ve made. Am I a Cinderella awaiting the stroke of midnight or a Sleeping Beauty dreaming of a kiss?
Dreaming. I should be sleeping. The alarm will go off in five short hours. I’ve already wasted the past three letting my brain torture me with things yet out of my grasp.
So I will hold what is there: a sleeping man, a purring cat, and my pillow.


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