Degrees

Sixty-eight.

I change it to seventy-two,

and within the hour,

my roommate will turn it back down.

I notice around 2 PM—

the dial's been moved again.

My hand knows the way now,

smooth plastic, worn from reaching,

a groove in the shape of this small war.

Seventy-two is how I breathe.

Sixty-eight is how they live.

The thermostat doesn't judge.

It just does what it's told,

clicking on and off,

the heating system working overtime

for a battle fought in single digits.

Three times before noon yesterday,

I caught myself reaching.

I didn't even think about it anymore—

it's just what I do now,

like checking my phone,

like breathing,

like the small, invisible fight

we wage without ever speaking about it.

This morning I left it at 72.

I'm waiting to see how long it stays.