Inch by slow inch, I slither to the side of the bed.
Every pause in his breath, every shuffle, makes me freeze.
Sleep is important to Peter.
Years pass before I navigate around two squeaky floorboards
and close our bedroom door with the softest click.
The living room is quiet.
Windows dominate the far wall
blinds are always open—the strings either cut by a kid or chewed off by a cat.
The door is rarely locked because the handle falls off
The moon is huge and wreathed in clouds as it rises over the trees.
Old wives would say snow is coming
or maybe it’s a bad omen.
I glance back to the bedroom door.
I don’t need an omen to know hard times are coming.
The moon connects you to all people
who marvel at its light over the eons.
Pay attention and you can feel them.
I take three slow steps forward,
careful to not kick a toy or make a loud noise,
and strip off my shirt,
leave my pants puddled beside it.
The back door opens smoothly.
The ground is cold yet mud oozes between my toes.
I throw my arms wide and my head back,
savor the softness of my hair brushing my lower back,
turn in a slow circle,
and disappear into the mist and moonlight.
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