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My left thumb has a mind of its own,

a tiny bird trapped under the skin.

At three in the morning, the internet

is a basement with no exit.

I found a thread from eleven years ago

where a man named Davey-P

described this exact rhythmic twitch.

He stopped replying in October.

I’m staring at the glass on the nightstand,

the blue glow of the screen

drowning in the lukewarm water,

wondering if I should write my will

or just buy a better pillow.