The lamp flickers on and off softly

As though it’s a fire begging to grow

As though you are not there, begging for it to stop

You sit on the bed sheets you cleaned that morning

The same bed sheets you bought with all your money

They’re a fancy material, that of expensive things

Your alone though

No one to share it with, to breathe in the detergent you used and think of

home

No one to hold you as...