Reaching for Warmth

Cold sheets tangled like regrets,

I lie awake under a breath too light,

silence filling the space beside me

where warmth used to press steady.

Fingertips curl, searching

for the imprint of a hand

that might erase the hum beneath skin,

a steady pulse, a quiet anchor.

The mattress creaks empty,

and the darkness presses close,

slipping into every gap

where a touch might have stayed.

All night I reach,

hungry for the small weight

of a hand that could slow the hum—

a flicker, a spark,

anything to stop this buzzing loneliness.