Tired

My speech doesn't slur so much as pause, catch. I'm still processing the last thought as I ask for the next.

Slow, and careful. Musn't miss.

Light is a soft glow at the edge of vision. Sounds encroach. Monitors pace thought, insistent, racing.

Moments magnify. As if the previous one isn't gone yet, new one already here.

My stray thoughts are of sheets, and food. Heavy, sweet food.

Standing in the middle of this river, current stronger than it appears. How tempting to float rather than wade.

To be the responsible one at 4 am.

And, finally, the morning air.