Surrender Slips

I sit within the still of night when the floor has stopped speaking of feet dragging under the weight of living. Cool puffs of air lift the curtain, pressing entry into the darkened room, searching for corners already furred with dust clinging as if daring the breeze to claim victory. Sounds curled into day’s call retired long ago. The dark receives my breath through parted nostrils, mingling with the hint of lime riding in on the next wave— tart, refreshing, let-go. My lids droop, obedient to the hush behind them, leaning into the lavender pillow, toward marshmallow-buoyant dreams wrapped in cotton-light blankets, bobbing in on cool puffs of air. Surrender slips between the grocery list and the pronoun I.