Insomnia

It is nearly light and I have not slept. Pine boughs scrape the windowpanes. “Stay,” she murmurs when I stir, but the name she whispers is not mine. She drifts in and out, clutching the covers to her chest. Frost limns the window, and yet I lie here and burn.

Small stack of old letters and photos tied with twine.

Estate Sale

Somewhere amongst the detritus of my younger days—the moldering books, the broken music-box, the worn-out dancing shoes—is a letter that contains your signature and a broken promise. Our entire history could be read in its creases and ragged edges, if I cared to find it.