The numbers won't stay still.
They shimmer, then scatter,
like ants when you lift a stone.
I read the same line
four times. Maybe five.
The pencil is too loud.
My heart is louder.
My mind replays it again.
It was years ago.
It was yesterday.
I keep pretending the lamp
is enough light.
Tell myself the shadow
is just the chair.
That I didn't hear the door.
The breath.
The footsteps.
He isn't here.
He never is.
He always is.
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