Instead of sleeping with you
I sleep with the tape
that outlines your shape
it sticks to the floor
like memory
that won’t lift clean
the edges curl up
where I keep walking
like I’m trying to erase it
I trace it in the dark
like warmth could still happen
if I get the shape right
the room still holds
your wrong measurements
like it forgot halfway through
how bodies stop meaning the same thing
when they’re gone
I leave the light low
so the outline stays
visible enough
to mistake for you
sometimes it almost shifts
like it’s learning to breathe
but it’s just me
hovering over it again
counting the space
that refuses to answer