mornings rise gray against gray;

I take the pills

on my bedside tray, hear my voice

like going through a tunnel, or a plane

taking off–my life

muffled in cotton.

I awake to two a.m. texts from my daughter

halfway across the country where I am

beyond reach.   Her life with him

half-formed, muted colors.   Their world a blank canvas

empty with the space of day, the dark light

of Seattle behind frosted glass.