I want to say, "I’m yours," thinking it might not be so obvious. Like, "I’m dreaming," or "I’m nowhere," or "I’m nothing." The games we play to guess what we already know. Sitting in the dark, waiting for the electricity to come back on. Making up questions to fill the voids. Tickles of confession coughed from the back of our boredom.

Counting backwards from zero. I let the minutes decide who I’ll believe. Or if I’ll ever believe anyone. I sometimes feel stranded. This world that is not my home. Like ice melting so slowly, the sun tired of trying to teach me to be warm. Even the weakest demons are stronger than me.

It’s the worst flaws that form the prettiest patterns. Like waiting too long to pick up the phone. No messages, just dead air. These hesitations become my identity. Realtors selling empty space. Like water on grocery store shelves. Time pretending to know where I am. The fiction fluctuates from truth to lie. Stalled moments taken away, because I couldn’t decide on what to say. Thinking that life would go on.

And it does, just without me.