When you can't fix things.

My husband lies prostrate on the kitchen floor: arms and legs spread wide,
And I just stare.

I just stare and my eyes blink hard: helpless: responsible.

And it covers me over like waves as the tide rushes in and I didn't have time to move my blanket.

Seeping.  Cold.  Strange moisture [I shiver] like mold growing up my arm and down my hands and into my fingers.

I cry because...

I
should be enough.

I
should have a solution.

I
don't know what to do.

I
feel.
Blank.

Empty pages in a new book that isn't written.

But you paid for it, damnit.  You paid for a STORY.