White linen evening
Feb. 3rd, 2004 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slipjig3It's just after ten in the evening, just late enough that calling it an evening has become poetic license. One child is fast asleep in her bed, the other dozing in a ball in Grandma's recliner, still not deep enough into dream-state to move him. The snow has been falling since afternoon, and its blanketing quiet seeps in through the cracks in the walls and hovers around my ankles, drapes itself over my shoulders. This chair is a good place to be, for the moment.
I've had a few days off from work in a row, days that I've largely squandered on bits of nothing, and daytime sleep. Now I'm trying hard, very hard, not to think of the stretch of work that lays in front of me. I fight it by prowling the home pages of singer-songwriters, all folk musicians, all women, in search of something new to ground me. And as Nini Camp's voice and Lis Harvey's voice radiate through the headphones, I find solace, but with it a melancholy that I'm at a loss to put a name to.
My bed is all of two feet behind me, over my right shoulder, sheets and down comforter rumpled from this morning's nap. The sleep that has overtaken my children hasn't found me yet, so the sheets will stay behind me for now. But I find myself putting sleep off as long as possible. It's nights like this, when the world around me seeks its silence, that this bed of mine feels too large, and too much like home, to not be shared. It's nights like this when I wish there were a warm body pressed to my chest, fingers curled in mine, another heartbeat beneath my wrist, and sleep creeping into my pores like the breath of angels.
I take off the headphones to write this entry, to let the words reach my fingertips unhindered. I yawn, stretch, more ready for sleep than I wish to acknowledge. But there are still songs to hear, and the snow is still falling, showing no sign of slowing.
I've had a few days off from work in a row, days that I've largely squandered on bits of nothing, and daytime sleep. Now I'm trying hard, very hard, not to think of the stretch of work that lays in front of me. I fight it by prowling the home pages of singer-songwriters, all folk musicians, all women, in search of something new to ground me. And as Nini Camp's voice and Lis Harvey's voice radiate through the headphones, I find solace, but with it a melancholy that I'm at a loss to put a name to.
My bed is all of two feet behind me, over my right shoulder, sheets and down comforter rumpled from this morning's nap. The sleep that has overtaken my children hasn't found me yet, so the sheets will stay behind me for now. But I find myself putting sleep off as long as possible. It's nights like this, when the world around me seeks its silence, that this bed of mine feels too large, and too much like home, to not be shared. It's nights like this when I wish there were a warm body pressed to my chest, fingers curled in mine, another heartbeat beneath my wrist, and sleep creeping into my pores like the breath of angels.
I take off the headphones to write this entry, to let the words reach my fingertips unhindered. I yawn, stretch, more ready for sleep than I wish to acknowledge. But there are still songs to hear, and the snow is still falling, showing no sign of slowing.
