The sky has been achingly blue. Spring is coming, despite everything. On my run this morning I nearly trip multiple times because my face is turned up to the sky. This isn't about exercise anymore. This is the time I can forget the four walls that have become my world and breathe deep. This is the time that my body feels alive; not just on-hold and waiting for the end of all of this.
Outside a queue has already formed for the supermarkets. Inside the sunlight has begun reaching its yellow fingers over our windowsills, trying to reach us with its warmth.
Work is dull now. Already the discipline of the first week feels relaxed. I am sticking to a schedule but going through the motions only. My mind is in limbo.
I have never been good at being cooped up. My limbs have always been long- even when I was born, my legs scrunched to my chest, began to kick and stretch as soon as they were able, my lungs screaming in protest at the long confinement. I have a restless spirit. I cannot focus on anything. I could write but the stories do not come. My poems are all the same. My eyes feel heavy.
My lover is doing better. She is more disciplined than I. More contained. We still are not sick of each other. If anything we cling on harder, our hands reaching for each other across the table where we work.