Ash on the Mound
The ghost of your dent in the cushion still breathes. It's a monument built of a thousand old scenes. I ran my hand over it tonight, just to feel the difference in the fabric. It’s silly, I know. But it's the only way I can feel you anymore, dear. You are here now, on the other side of the coffee table. I keep looking at my hand and then at yours. I used to find an entire universe in the way your fingers curled around mine. Now, I feel only the chill of the air on my skin. We've become experts at agreeing on the silence. It's not a fight. It's not anger. It's worse. It's nothing. I want to scream, or maybe just whisper, "What happened to us?" But you'd just give me a tired look and say something equally tired, and we'd be right back where we started. We're suspended in this house we used to call a bed. The blankets are piled up in the corner just like they've always been, and the fairy lights flicker and hum our last song. I trace t...