everybody hurts

if a reach in the form of a video from 1992 sent via email at 1am is all i have, i will have to take it. she's down below and we haven't even gotten started yet. he's asleep and i haven't had my second glass yet. i don't want to wake any one but apparently this is my hour of feeling. i mustn't disrupt.
i, alone in my bubble of ear buds and toasty laptop and peanut butter cups, from the edges of bodily self and in toward the center: this day, these people, this life, my life, how hungry 
to tell how it is, in some ways, like your life. shhhhhhh...if i wake this bubble of words might break. i will have to turn out the lights (although i should) and i know its late and i have boxes to pack (and a life to unpack) and meals to prepare and phone calls to make and details dormant that have not even occurred to me yet, all on the plate of tomorrow. because i have not closed my eyes, tomorrow hasn't happened, and the whole of what is mine, and possibly yours, seeps into me now that everybody's chest rises heavy and i alone am here pressed up against the night mirror and all that batters my ethereal tissue and how i am not enough to you, the baby of you, both of you, cut from one maddening duvet. do we even remember the child? I will be the first to say in the breath-space that at times i do not remember, i am so overwhelmed by present that the cotton of my blankets feel worthy of a line, and i wonder how i might reach her right now because the morning will come and i will be stiff and young again, or he will turn in our bed and squint at the light and the words will stop coming from me the way they do now, like a spell broken across the heather sheets. so desperate and lovely we are in the night.