eleven and a day.

i'm not done counting, but my fingers are staying still after running over calender days and figuring in my head when it will be convenient to cry.

so i find my silence and give it a moment to catch up with me before everything else finds me as well.

deep breaths against my pillow and knees against my chest, i'll fall asleep again. morning will beat on my door rudely. afternoon will wander in unsubstantially. and evening will fall, as it always does, with quiet.

i've counted and added and left this day so you can be there in some tangible form, some better way.

but it passes just the same, and we add it on to those other days.