Recollection of a 5 am Sestina CJ Laudenbach

I wake up with a start at exactly 5 am; the thunder of the deep October storm practically shook the foundation of our apartment. I wake with the blankets all in a tangle — I had, at one point, ripped them away from you leaving you shivering in the dark.

You lay facing away from me, I can tell, in the dark during the sort of storm that would wake anyone up at 5 am — except, of course, you.

You who couldn’t even be roused by the storm that trapped a tree branch in a tangle of power lines, cutting the light and heat from our apartment.

Tonight, at least, there is light and heat in our apartment (even if, right now, we’re in the cold and dark), and the blankets protect me in a warm embracing tangle, the sort one only feels when you wake up at exactly 5 am because the thunder of the deep October storm woke everyone up — except, of course, you.

I wonder what dreams keep you asleep despite shivering in a cold apartment and despite the thunder of the deep October storm,

I see your outline rise and fall in the dark because it’s 5 am and your mind is deep in an REM infused tangle.

My mind is also deep in a tangle as I try to think of the words I want to write down for you: about how it’s 5 am, and we’re together in the bedroom of our very own apartment, and how you’re the one who’s afraid of the dark, and I’m the one who’s afraid of the storm.

If you were awake, you’d turn on a light with a smile and listen to the storm while I hide with my nerves in a tangle. But because it’s me, I quiver in the dark and tuck the blankets around you in the bedroom of our very own apartment. Now it’s ten minutes past 5 am.

I try to match your peace in the dark as I wait out the deep October storm that woke me at exactly 5 am. Our limbs are in a share-the-blankets tangle as I find my sleep beside you in the bedroom of our very own apartment