The Blue Nothing

At three in the morning

the phone glows like something dying slowly.

I like a photo from seven years ago.

The girl in it is smiling.

She's holding a drink I can't place.

I scroll past her, past all of them—

vacations, new apartments, babies with names

that don't feel real to me.

When did I stop wanting?

Not tired. Not sad, exactly.

Just—stopped.

The blue light reflects back at me

and behind it, the dark window,

and behind that,

just the outline of my own face

looking at the outline of my own face.

I close the app.

Open it again.

Like if I refresh it enough

I'll remember what wanting felt like,

or maybe just remember

what my own face looked like

when I still wanted.