I can only scribble

pain subsides and I can feed myself again. the second night passes a lot quicker, thanks largely to the lack of lights and beeping from machines I can't locate or understand. I don't remember any dreams, but in the morning I manage to shower. behind the curtain I move my hands gently, guiding soap where I can without hurting, washing off the thirty something hours of playing patient. already I can manage much more than before. time is kind and heals sometimes.

they take my bloods and signature before letting me leave. I can only scribble and this makes me laugh because whatever I write doesn't matter. a friend retrieves me from my room, carrying my things down the hall into the day. the fresh air is cold and sharp against my neck. I breathe back into the world outside - the world I know - not knowing what comes next.

at home we strip the bed and clean my sheets. the hum of the laundry underscores a symphony of birds and distant traffic. I sit and read through hours of little consequence. your necklace rests beside my pillow. I miss you like it matters but don't want to weigh you down with words. you find out about the fall on your train home.