And then I blink.
One tear.
Could be two—who knows.
I wipe them away so fast
they don’t count anyway.
It’s probably from the wine. Or the hormones.
Or the fact my ribcage still smells like him.
Then another tear.
Not ‘cause I want him to text,
but ‘cause I hate caring if he doesn’t.
Or maybe because I’m tired of being alone.
Another night, same old song.
Okay, maybe four tears.
// 11:37 PM //
Turn off my bedroom light.
Dive into my own damn hoodie.
Slide under the sheets.
Leave my phone face-down on the nightstand.
Face the windows, the skyline.
Close my eyes.
// 11:38 PM //
Buzz.
I open my eyes,
stop breathing,
don’t grab it right away.
I stare out the window,
into the sleeping city,
the seconds stretching,
control over anxiety,
keeping hope alive,
