I wrote this at 4 a.m., feverish and half-awake, because words felt like the only tether to normalcy.
Thinking feels like moving through water. Sentences start, dissolve, reform. Memory offers fragments: a laugh from last week, the feel of sunlight on a different afternoon. I clutch at these fragments the way you clutch a warm cup — for comfort and proof that I was, at some point, whole. i wrote this at 4am sick with covid link