I broker this night bug like a light under the blanket. Its spindled legs twitch in time with the women on the TV talking about how they will handle their lives, lives put up out there like they even made sense.
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There are two more twitches before it all stops and we all go to sleep.
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In the darkness, my gut grows sour and I turn over to smother it with a pillow; a mewling elsewhere; a kink in that kind of boy; the roof rendered bland, rubbered and rented.
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I wake up in the morning, but the bug is long gone and the women are repeating themselves from the night before, endlessly. Endlessly breaking my heart, but easily gotten over all the same.
