alone. unmoving.

It’s been some time. Alone in this space. Belly on the floor, limbs lengthening in sun. I’ve swallowed a ball. The nausea creeps. I keep my left cheek down, the pores begin to itch against its surface. Stay.
I’m thinking of the ways I can distract or shift or move to feel something more, maybe something else. Maybe less. I don’t know. That answer feels strange and familiar at once, I don’t know. I am forcing this belly is down to breathe this pit to gravity. To remember. To let go. To grow. I have to stay low to feel this.
The awkward. Uncomfortable. The tinkering at the little crack in my heart. The footsteps as the goodbye. No wave. No embrace. No touch. Footsteps on the black turf, the sprint of the heart that beats outside of my chest. I don’t crumble then. I wait. I plan to exhale and fall apart on the living room floor. I plan ahead to not interfere.
This kind of alone is new. My alone time has always come by the gifts of others. The trips away from home. The focus on the other. Out of state, out of country, away from the loves of my life.
This alone time is new. I’m home. On my floor. The house is clean. The honey-do lists are none. This is for me. This is the ask and I shall receive. #holymotherhood