Seven months to go.

(how many days is that?

hours? Seconds?

heartbeats?)

I no longer cry diamonds

(delicate; such pretty

little things sliding sown

the cheeks of soon-to-be

moms).

Instead, they are constellations,

a routine of endless nights buried

under four blankets to block out

the world for a mere moment

and

desperately trying to remember

his touch

(sandpaper-smooth and yearning).

&&& this is so much more

than a bite-your-lip habit &&&

12:45pm and she kicks

(I wonder if she'll

knock a rib loose someday)

at my frustration.

She feels it before I even

Think to do it

(can she taste the

pity in

the air around us?).

Another jab and I smile.

Two months before my (our) miracle,

My (our) personal cloud of raine.

And my dreams are fleeting."

12:50pm 1/1/2007