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.