Two days on the couch and the ceiling became

Two days on the couch and the ceiling became

a country I knew by heart, each crack a road, each stain

a town I'd visited in worse condition.

The fever broke this morning like a bad decision

finally losing its nerve.

I showered. I wiped the mirror with my sleeve

and the steam pulled back in patches, slow to leave,

and there it was—my collarbone,

sharper than I remembered, more alone

above the chest than a bone should be.

I pressed my finger into the hollow.

The skin dipped further than I could follow

with logic, like the body had been borrowing

from itself while I slept, quietly hollowing

out the scaffolding.

The kitchen window—I'd left it open.

Cold air coming through in a line so broken

it felt deliberate, like the apartment

had decided on its own to be a part

of winter, with or without my permission.

I touched the ridge again.

Hard. Mine.

The mirror fogging back along the line

where my hand had cleared it,

my face disappearing behind the wet

while the bone stayed visible,

the last thing to go.