the science of missing you

My bed swallows me when I am alone in it. Buried in multiple blankets and small
avalanche piles of throw pillows, red and

gold and gray, I wake tangled, lost, cradled in the absence of other days,
sensitive only to the books stacked at my feet,

the cats stretched, stretching, asleep. I take up less of the bed than they do,
the pages, essays, non-fiction, and novels,

the small bundles of sinew, bone, and warm black fur.

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