I lay in the impression of your body
On the right side of the bed
The side pressed against the window
Always the window facing side was yours
Perhaps because you always felt the urge to escape
The need to be able to flee my presence at any given moment
Any flit of your mind
And any flicker of my imperfection

In the dark
Laying in the attic
The rain is slow and painful
There is one persistent dripping directly above me
Many more feel as though they are closing in on me
As if taunting my incompetent tear ducts
My eyes that refuse to cry