Sirius

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a cracked rib. a thorn in my side. [fuck!] seering pain. seeing stars. [don’t move, Kathryn… just close your eyes and breathe…]

i yearn for sleep. a sleep unbroken. the legs feel like sand, heavy; but head and hands are light as air.  the mind, coiled like a cobra in a basket. waiting. the imagination, untethered like a cloud, drifts eagerly above and beyond. the body, grounded, upon a bed of cotton and fur* but it may as well be a bed of nails. i cannot recall my last seven hour sleep. it has been weeks of dotted hours. the air i breathe is lilac to the touch.

prescription painkillers and a scribe are all i have in sight. they are all the entertainment i have tonight. this pain. driving me mad. but the visions are nice. my write hand, seemingly in zero-gravity, struggles to stay down upon the page. inside, i rage. i am invalid. the worst kind of invalid. i will bite. it is going to be the longest night. [you think this is trite, don’t you? fuck you!]

oranges illuminate the world outside. so pretty. the gentle hum of traffic in the distance is a not altogether unpleasant accompaniment to my own breathing. all is still.

i look up at Sirius with his head bowed; pining the death of his master, his starman.  [after all, all that is left are dying stars to illuminate this life… now that our brightest is gone]

“are you lonely?” i yell.

his voice is thin and white; but i hear him through my skin.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

image: NASA, of course.

*faux, naturally…

 

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