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].