In Search of Nests

There are parts of the moment that get lost in memory. Integers in turmoil. Decimal places that stretch further than willingness. All these years. The formula that yields this present. Like pi it cannot be fully calculated.

My hand was jogging in place over the lines in the paper. Grunting as it curled the heavy barbells of the empty spaces. So many years lifting those weights. And never. Ever. Getting any stronger.

I could hear them breathing all the way downstairs. The profound senses of the lonely gloating again. Embellishing every whisper with the tick of a clock counting toward nowhere. And I would reason with my two halves. The woman and the girl. The white and the yolk. Fretting obsequiously. Panicking silently over the stability of my shell.