Perhaps

Perhaps,
One day,
You will wake up at 4 am.
You will pour yourself water from the glass pitcher.
Fluorescent light from the fridge
Mimics the moon as it paints your room,
You won’t think of her.
You will go back to bed,
Not feeling the absence of her warmth beside you. Instead,
You find comfort in the warm white sheets.
You will sleep.
Soundly.
Lulled by the consoling hums of the AC,
As if the cosmos do not know you’re empty—
Perhaps.

But tonight,
You pour from the glass pitcher,
Cold against your dry hands,
You look for her.
In the ripples of the water.
You drink it.
Coolness soothe your arid lips,
You go back to bed.
The moon paints silhouettes on your room,
Light leaks through the crevices
Of the broken window.
The AC shudders loudly,
You will try to sleep.
You won’t.

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