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.
