I feel the absence. I hate how vast the space between my heart and rib cage feels. It used to be filled with laughter and life and reminders that I’m safe. I’m okay. Im alright. I’m very well. It echos the number 4. One’s missing and you know it too. Ghosts live behind my eyes and I’m constantly haunted. Sweating out a fever like an anxious sinner- I swear it’s turning into holy water. Im floating around this world waiting for the floor to cave in. My knees buckle in suspense.

You were a gem glistening in the shadows. I hold onto you for safekeeping. For the suffrage. For the story. I reread the pages when I feel lonely and can’t put the book down lately. You wrote it so fucking well. I see visions of fours in my sleep. We were a unit of four and you held it up for the world to see. And when everyone references that number l, I fucking hate it:

I avoid four way stops. I keep sets of three or two. I keep one rosary on my night stand. I think four is too heavy for me to carry anyways. I dip past the four lane roads and take the single winding street that leads me where the birds only know.

It’s quiet on the south side. It’s where the fourth heart rests. It’s really fucking sad and I know you feel it too. It’s written in the laughter I can’t bring myself to let out. I slice my tongue on every word I say to cover up the mess. This is the catalyst. This is me surrendering to what I carry. I only have room left for three. I can’t hold myself up if I keep falling backwards. I feel the absence. I fucking hate the number four. AMT