He seemed to swim for miles,
flipping and flopping, this way then that. Discarding his limbs from beneath
the sheets. Kicking like a fish caught in the shallow boards of a boat, groping
in a death spasm below the oars. Sometimes his knees pressed hard against the
mattress because they ached. Other times his hands hid beneath his head because
they trembled. Most nights were always the same. Most mornings he never awoke
because he never really slept. He didn’t regret this fact; actually, he only
felt a slight relief that she wasn’t there to see it. All the squirming without
her. All the boxing, bloodshed, and strange mattresses.
