I wanted this.
To be lying here in our bed but still strong enough to brush my fingers along our sheets.
The same sheets we picked out, weeks before you passed. I close my eyes and see your
eyes that day in the store, not caring about the colour but happy to oblige.
The fabric feels as soft today as from when you carried them inside.
I raise my hand to wave at the birds that sing outside,
a song I rarely forget when I slept.
Within a made-up unison to the ticking from our clock’s second hand- a white noise that I
never grew to love, that happens to stop at this very moment.
The only time I looked over to read since you passed.
As the rest of the clock’s face is watching in silence during these last few seconds,
as I let the song wave over warmth, to again remember
every part of your hands.
