The Abyss in the Bedroom

My phone slipped through the sheets, a clean dive

into that dark, narrow throat where the dust lives.

I had to reach in, my knuckles scraping

the drywall, cold and rough like a basement floor.

The flashlight flicked on and I saw the inventory:

a hair tie with a broken spring that isn't mine,

a single, shriveled orange peel, hard as a scab,

and a felted ball of cat hair the size of a lung.

I touched something—sticky, or maybe just damp—

and pulled my hand back like I’d been burned.

It’s only four inches of floor, but it feels

like the place where all my failures go to sleep.

I got the phone back. The screen is smeared.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed now, shivering,

knowing exactly what’s under me, holding

all that grey, forgotten fur against the dark.