It’s Tuesday, or maybe a Sunday. I used to be able to tell the difference by the speed of the elk making their way through the stony valley below. 

On Tuesdays, they are alert and purposeful. On Sundays, they meander — perhaps trying to postpone whatever Tuesday might bring. But these days, they are slow every day, honey dripping from their hooves, clumsily clomping through the dried grass.

I am the same. I don’t want to be sitting here writing this. It’s so painful. But what else am I going to do?

I already drank 3 cups of tea, all cold.

The floor pulls my eyes into a trance, and I freeze, unaware of entire hours passing.

I swept the stone porch this morning. Only a single maple leaf decorated its middle.

I washed and dried my face a dozen times, but it stays wet regardless. The tears are rashing my cheeks into prickled raspberries.

I don’t care if I turn into a plant or a stump or roots that slither deep into the ground. If I need to sit here for another thousand days, then that’s what I will do.

I don’t want to move without you.