Night.
But not oblivion.
On the blank screen
there flickers to life
the small comfort of you
in the muscle memory
of the best of what we’ve been.
It’s so small, it’s easy to believe
in the imprint of your thumb
in the hollow of my palm:
your finger tracing light along my skin.
No histrionics here.
This is a budget show.
In fact, it’s small enough that its touch
should hardly brush the sides of sleep.
But I feel its loss!
And wake to ice splinters,
magnifying jagged and untamed:
from shard to stalactite to leviathan.
It’s okay.
These things I'll fight with slow counted breaths
and later coffee and a one-size-fits-all mask of normality.
It’s just the small things that will kill me.
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