night. in Drifter in Zion

I’m loosely held together by very thin thread, and when a seam inevitably bursts, I might not be able to stop the tears. They’re waiting: hurting my eyes, caught deep in my throat, lost in my chest, but I don’t want them free.

I’m not ready.

I’ve been dreaming of the staircase.

It catches me in the dead of night.

Our house is still, except for the gentle hum of the ceiling fan. I uneasily roll into my back and count the rise and fall of my rib cage, while thinking about it: scuffed blue paint, a creak at the bottom and top, hands so much stronger than my own.

I’m glad I told you. You are my person.

But I don’t want to remember. Is that okay?

Sometimes I reach out to you when you’re asleep. I rest my hand against your back. That is enough.