at night

So tired of typing.

Tired of screens.

The blue light.

I wonder if they are listening.

Not that it matters.

I’ve got nothing to hide

tonight.

Everything comes out eventually

because that’s the only way we survive.

Keep the spirit moving.

From one life to the next.

Why do people text?

What happened to phone calls?

Long, engaging emails?

What happened to hand-written notes?

A letter sealed in an envelope,

licked shut,

stamped,

and mailed.

Why do we move forward

when we know that all we ever needed

is back?

There.

With her. Or him.

In IT.  

Hidden away in that secret place.  

An apartment in California,

bright and small with that special chair

and the posters

and the big, reaching plant.

In the back of a little blue pickup truck

under the moonlight.

Bodies busy mixing up love and desire,

making a brave roadmap for life

that most of us are afraid to follow.

So, we become men

that struggle to be good husbands.

Women that fight against good sense

to be loyal wives.

Spirits working away at moments,

creating what we know

is right.

And real.

And worthy

of typing.

Even when we are tired.

So tired

of the blue lights,

the listening,

and all of the hiding

that comes to hurt

at night.