I was silent again today. The thoughts were flying, blood pumping—making it hard to hear.
As the minutes drained out of the hours, I was further away. Words slipping into focus just long enough to blur.
At one point, I imagined my head down on the desk. If I’m not lucky enough to drown in my tears and snot and saliva, at least I’d like to sleep through tomorrow.
The day ended. My voice didn’t come back though, this time. It rose and bowed to some salty blockade somewhere near my uvula. That turned out to be lucky.
I made it to the door of the building—almost out—before that uvula-levy broke.
Struggling with the heavy glass door, I bent my head down inside the lapel of my jacket, a grown woman collapsing in on herself under dying oaks.
Between my heaving shoulders, the missing and the exhaustion from the missing competed for all of me.
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