3 AM again. The room unthreads. My dead wife’s absence still makes the bed. The ceiling peels; a thin white hiss— little bald doctors in the edges of this. Auras flare in the plain of sight, bright as wire, wrong as light. I look too hard; the dark leans in. Sleep won’t come, and the seam won’t mend. There are other worlds than these. There are other worlds than these. I keep awake to hold the thread— there are other worlds than these. The clock keeps score with its bone-white hand. Prayers fray out where they used to land. I hear the low ones in the static air, patient as knives, already there. “The world is full of things that are true.” Some are mercy. Some undo. I stand in the grain of the hour, and see how thin this room can be. There are other worlds than these! There are other worlds than these! I keep awake to hold the thread— there are other worlds than these! Don’t wake me. I’m still looking.
