VIII.

Waking in the night,

ticking hands drag me from our bed,

the ship’s clock winding up to chime.

It finds me in the kitchen, cloaked in Goodwill blankets.

My fingers tremble on the glass.

It doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

She’s still in bed, 

angel hair splayed across the pillow with my heart 

nestled against her cheek. She will

keep it. And the blank space

in my chest will stretch and yawn and gape

because

because

because

(I look to the shadow but it shakes its head).

It’s time.