She wakes at 2 AM and
reaches for the side that
stayed cold. The room is
quiet in a way that
sounds like a question.
Somewhere between waking
and sleep, she forgot
the shape of being
known. The blanket pulls
tight. The dark does not
answer. She lies still,
letting the loneliness be
lonely without making it
mean something. Morning
will come. It always
does. For now, the bed
holds both versions of
her — the one who left
and the one still
learning how to stay.