some days i wake up sweating, others trembling and cold. i press my head against the pillow to relish in its collected warmth.
my feet hang off the end of the bed.
i run my fingers along my eyelids, let the sun in.
i walk shakily down the hall on the cold tile floor to emerge moments later into the morning, chilly. i run my fingers through my hair, down my face. “wake up.” i light a cigarette.
i close my eyes again. i try to smell the ocean. i try to smell the redwoods. i try, i try. the subway, about 900 miles away, beep-honks to let me know it’s pulling into the station. the fog is rolling in over the trees. the waves are lapping at the shore. the cars are passing over the bridges.
i open my eyes and put out my cigarette. i become aware of its bitter taste. i believe i’ve missed the train.