Six weeks until your shoulder

six weeks until your shoulder

six weeks.
six weeks is a prison sentence
handed down by the calendar
with a smile.

I’ve been living on little rituals:
forced chai sips that taste like eternal waiting,
pointless laundry that gives me purpose,
laundry I keep finding excuses to do,
the daily walk
past smug, irritated, impatient couples
who don’t know they’re lucky
just because they can touch.

I don’t miss you like a love song.
I miss you like a missing tooth…
my tongue can’t stop going there,
checking the empty place
until it aches.

my phone is face-down
like it’s ashamed
of all the numerous excuses
I’ve used up to text you
even though it’s
1:35 am.

I try the tricks.
I try the brave-girl tricks.
I try the adult-woman tricks.
I try the cheap magic of penning poems.

I pull the pillow in close
and it’s just fabric,
just stuffing,
just a silly, obedient thing
that never leaves
because it never had a life.

but still...
let me pretend it’s your shoulder
and not my dumb pillow,
let me pretend it’s your heartbeat
not mine,
this stubborn drum in my ribs
that keeps proving I’m here
even when you aren’t.

outside, a car hisses by
like the world’s shushing me too,
like the street knows
it’s too late for longing
for my loved one.

I count backwards from forty-two days
like it’s a prayer,
like numbers can be rosary beads
if you rotate them hard enough.

the rest of the house is sleeping
and it makes me furious
how easy sleep can be
when you’re not the one
staring at the clock
like it’s a judge.

I press my ear into the pillow
and listen to nothing
until nothing becomes something...
a warm lie I can live inside.

let me pretend it’s your voice saying
…shhh, sleep my darling, shhhh…

say it again.
say it like you’re here,
like your breath is slow incense
curling through my hair.

…shhh…

and I do what I always do:
I survive another minute,
then another,
then another...
until the night finally loosens its grip
and I slip under
not because I’m brave
but because I’m spent,
and because pretending
is sometimes the only tender thing
a woman can afford
at 1:35 a.m.
with six weeks left
and a heart that won’t stop
calling your name
into the dark.