It sits so heavy and still.
i hardly notice It after some time.
the crisp blank bedsheets against my skin
always seem to rub the wrong way,
though the markings like to uncrease themselves.

glorified stars of pollution wink outside the panes,
tapping at the glass without leaving marks.
i look at It. It looks at me.
when my limbs find a way to shift the weight of bedding,
It settles into the folds all the same.

back and forth—we go for hours,
until i huff and switch on the bedside lamp,
the lightbulb eventually radiating heat against the chill.
nowhere to be found, but It’s arms find my waist in spite:
suffocating in my blanketed grave.

Sorrow’s fingertips shush the last warm light
and the twilight shines pale again.
the breathing next to me doesn’t cease.
though, i guess mine doesn’t either.
i suppose that’s what we call a win.