What is happening to me?

I was happy. Well, content: I had — and had had — a life, a good one, a rich one — I was ready to go. No hurry to be gone, but ready. Any time.

Now I stand in the garden in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, not wishing to sleep, wanting only to soak in the moon's cool light, as it sinks into me like the touch of my beloved's hands, breathes on me, in me, shivering me, all certainty falling apart, like a standing bundle of dried stalks when the band is cut.

A voice within me ventures: I've been here before, I know what this is, what is happening to me — but that is simply not true. No one can have been here before, ever, one is only ever here — or not. When not, this — This — is a blank, cannot be seen, or felt, even known about.

But once here — is it a here? yes, that will do — you know where you are, who you are: you are the one here, dreaming of, longing for, this other one, *this* one, now, here within you, breathing with you, eyes in you, as when in each other's arms in the velvet dark.

The moon may be sinking, but I cannot see that, or feel it — I will only know that that happened when it has sunk, afterwards. Here, now, there is no afterwards, only the moonlit garden, the thrumming light, the opened place within me, filled, spilling.