The fruit pastille you couldn't find, dropped after Tommy tickled you just then, at a party, or something, last year sometime, discovered again, now it's anchoring your face to the carpet, somehow your head is under the bed, one foot draped, casually almost, 'round a bed post.
Tasting dust hair grit lipstick powder and paint, is you is or is you ain't even properly alive just now, awake just now, can't be sure just now.
Now that one eye is open, it's hard to ignore what your spine has been screaming at you all night long, or for whatever part of the night you gave to sleep, it's a greater part of the morning anyway, maybe it's a great morning, you don't know, maybe you'll never walk straight again, you don't know, you think you might but you don't want to take that journey of discovery just yet.
One eye open, the other intimate with carpet pile, one eye open and inspecting the archaeology amassed under the bed, fantastic examples of items from the "second year renting this fire-trap" era.
Yellow hair pin with tiny white blossoms is stark and standout, lost in the first week, an hour of trashing the room, Margaret coming back from work, assuming burglary, her shriek indefinately postponing further excavation of furniture and belongings. A sisters gift, 14 years between you making it precious, her tears when you left home anointing it as holy relic, sanctified and now needful.
Unhooking your foot and twitching as your body pain spasms, a line fought fish twitching on the dry floor, stretching out a hand to grasp it, curling fingers about it.
Sitting on the bed, peeling the dusty sweet from your cheek and absent-mindedly returning it to its previous resting place, shakily moving again, towards the bathroom and the mirror, fixing the hairpin just to see it.
That's why you're sitting at the table now, breakfast back burnered, writing a letter that's 2 years overdue.