Degrees of Separation

I heard the floorboard groan near the hall

and knew it was him, a thief in the dark.

He thinks I don't hear the plastic click-fall

of the dial moving down, leaving its mark

on the air in the bedroom. Sixty-two.

He wants the house to feel like a cave.

I’m under three blankets, wondering who

decided that shivering is how we behave

when we’re 'saving.' I watched the green glow

of the numbers pulsing against the wood trim.

It’s a tiny, digital sun, keeping us low,

keeping me distant and bitter at him.

His hand hovered there like he was afraid

I’d wake up and catch the heat in my palm.

We’re fighting a war that’s quietly made

of hovering fingers and a cold, fake calm.