The Bed

I'm waiting for this pang to die. A minor chord.

Steady bass and drum. Pang. Pang.

I don't tear at my leg skin. Crowded, ivory teeth gnaw slender fingertips, nibbling around long nail beds. "The best kind," every manicurist had ever told me, "you're lucky."

Another swig of liquid numb. Summer ale to wash down the ail.

Tonight is my last night in our bed. Well, his bed.

I contemplate slipping under the covers, moving fingers from an anxious mouth to the wetness beginning to burn where thighs meet.

It might ease the pain. One last time, for old time's sake.

But it remains unfolded and tucked in my head. A passing hiccup in a brain addled by the heart's burning.

I created something tonight for the first time in weeks. Washed the last of the king sized sheets save the set I'm sleeping on tonight. His towels sit in the dryer waiting for me to will myself off my ass.

I'm exhausted but I delay my body from sleep.

A part of me perks up. Tomorrow night, I sleep in the new bed. Selected without anyone's preferences in mind but my own.

Maybe it'll be okay.