Small Wave
In a room the fan spins, slow, steady— like her presence once did. Brown dust settles on my skin. Her sweat lingers on the bed, watching. Her eyes leak. My heart loses its edge. Her breath thins into dust. The cold calls me outside. But she— she stays inward, signing me with a small wave. The cold crawls along the walls. Her necklace passes through my throat. The room glimmers against bare skin. The fan keeps our shape. I reach— and still touch the fading wave of her fingers.