The yellow knit is tight and warm

The yellow knit is tight and warm.

I’m holding on to all the form

of something meant to matter.

The radiator gives a click.

The silence in the room is thick

despite the hallway clatter.

The pulse is in the softest spot.

I’m searching for the thing I’m not,

some heavy, sudden pull.

The clock is ticking near the bed.

I have a hollow in my head

where I should be quite full.