Something Permanent

Wandering the darkened hall again,
I venture down the steps,
now with slight waddle added.
The click and hum of automatic air
my only external company, tonight.

A month of waking to the rigid muscles and screams
of my son, stuck between waking and sleeping -
every other night, every other hour.
Devon is finally quiet.
My waking wakes up the one inside me, too.
Trent kicking at me, as did Devon,
and both needing me, desperately.

Their needs are not temporary.
Their dependence on my life doesn't wane.
More than I could ever say
of anyone else in my life.

I do remember wishing
and dreaming that non-biological needs
were focused on me,
that love beyond boundaries of the materialistic
were reaching out to me.
My tears testify that it still hurts me
to walk about in disillusioned cynicism.

Silence replaces the hum of central air.
A silent, bright light now my only company,
as I struggle to define my will
to just be, to just see the words
and to just know there is more
to my life than the memories
of a short, short fascination with me.

I hear, in my mind, Cocteau Twins,
and sing the last lines of "Half Gifts"
to myself and only for myself.
Steadily tears begin to stream once more.
Why should I be sad? But I let it come to me,
wrench at me, and fall from me.

When Devon gets stuck between sleep and waking
as he's sure to do, again,
I'll be able to forget what was temporary.
When I go to him, and scratch his legs softly,
and focus on something permanent, I'll forget
all about what couldn't have been, again.