A 6’4’’ distraction

from an ex with more melanin

stands in my door frame.

 

I reach for his hand,

pulling the idea of him

into my sheets.

 

I could soothe myself with strangers,

or vanish into vodka,

but instead I choose this.

 

I pretend to know

how his fingertips feel on my waist,

guiding me to sleep.

 

But when I wake at three,

greeted in darkness,

my thoughts are sprinting.

 

A common occurrence

for these anxious nights

when my chest pounds like a drum beat.

 

I reach for my vital organs

as my distraction finds home in my head,

an ever-present parasite.

 

So I prepare for the long haul,

unable to shake

the ghost I let into my bed.

 

Hours pass.

They bleed together. 

I watch the sun rise

as my thoughts 

spiral all

the way

down.

 

Contact Erin Haar at [email protected].