you stab at the sheet of fabric in your hands, the needle flashing. back and forth and back and forth and backandforth.
your movements are rhythmic. i lean in, listening to the drum, the identifiable footsteps down the hall, the delayed strike of thunder after lightning in a storm.
you move closer to whisper in my ear, never stopping your work:
"you won't remember this."
i now notice the stains on your shirt. they're speckled in various colors, greens and blues and shades of magenta.
i should have known.
you're silent again---or maybe my ears have just stopped working because i can't even hear your breathing. i don't look up this time. i'm too focused on the crate on the floor, the one that's full to the brim of clothing hangers. i close my eyes. you watch me sleep.
i don't even notice when the fabric tears.