and the cobwebs still clinging to my slowly waking eyes. . .my slowly waking mind. . .
images. . . details. . . swirl, mixed in with my awake thoughts. . .
trying to shake the elusive images. . .
inside, I shudder, and rise. . . too wary of falling back into the black whirlpool from which
I just narrowly escaped. . .
feet touching cold floor, and outside I shiver. . .
hands busy, making normal the day. . .
but the cobwebs still cling. . . and small details. . . .
words, I hear them as if freshly spoken, although the house is still. . . and sleeping. . .
that small bit of me keeps returning to the black waters edge. . .
I feel it tickling my toes. . .
I try to understand the shapes swimming out there beyond fingertip's reach. . .
what are they?
why did they touch me?
eyes more awake, I turn the small bit. . . a child, really. . .
and tell her it's time to go. . .
we have real place to be. . .
a morning to start. . .
and we leave. . .
but still I wonder. . . do those words, those images. . . that will haunt me all day. . .
do they hold truth in their spectered hands. . .