She wakes without a
reason, only the familiar
pull of not-quite-sleep.
Her fingers find the edge
of the sheet and hold
on, as if the fabric
might remember the shape
of someone who once slept
here. It doesn't.
The room is too quiet
and too loud at once.
She turns, turns back,
presses one foot to the
floor to feel something
solid. The night does
not ask what she needs.
It simply stays,
indifferent and enormous.
She lies still, counting
the seconds between her
heartbeats, waiting to
feel like herself again.
It takes longer than she
hoped.