Draft

The space heater clicked and the orange glow died,

leaving the bedroom to the draft from the glass.

I pulled off my sweater, and there on the side,

was a ridge where a ghost used to let his hand pass.

A blue vein is mapped through the pale of the skin,

like a creek bed that froze in a city of gray.

I’m getting much thinner. The bone’s coming in

to claim all the space that I’ve given away.