TumbleDweeeb

In the glow of hospital lights,
I counted the seconds between her breaths.
My thumb kept tracing small circles on her palm,
like if I memorize every line,
every soft curve,
it might keep her here just a little longer.

10 years.
That’s how long we spent building a life together,
hands steady, day by day.

The coffee in my cup kept going cold again.
Three times that day, maybe four.
Doesn’t matter.
Time doesn’t move right in this place.
Hope and grief sit next to each other here,
like old friends sharing the same plastic chair.

At home, her favorite mug
still sets on the counter,
coffee stain and all.
I started washing it a few years ago.
Took four years to bring myself to it.
Some things feel full of her:
the fogged-up bathroom mirror
where we wrote “I love you” notes,
before I headed to work,
the dip in her pillow,
still shaped by dreams I’ll never get to ask about.

I stand in her spots sometimes,
in that sharp air,
watching everything keep going—
cars passing—
like the world hasn’t even noticed
she’s not in it anymore.

It’s in that small thing—
the quiet clink of one dish against another—
where the weight hits hardest:
I’ve had to learn how to be just one
after being half of something
for so long,
I don’t even know
where I end
and love used to begin.