A man without hands, without feet. Night has nothing but eyes and ears and a scrap of heart.
You left ten weeks ago, and night is what I sleep with.
Tonight, I wake night up and take it to the grocery store. On the way there, Night looks at the moon, down to a sliver now, but still. If night had a voice, it would tell me how the moon is his.
I walk up to the doors that whoosh open. Night doesn’t fit. He is sky, after all. He is dreams, after all.
I tell Night to wait, and thank God for his ears.
I walk inside, my slippers back home, and I pad my feet down the aisles towards the bags and bags of chips. Since you left me, I look at food. It looks at me. I have put on the weight I was afraid to. If you still loved me, you wouldn’t now.
I pay for the chips and slip them into my jacket. They make a bump. They are the child we will never have. I stroke the child. I am in a dream. I should be dreaming asleep.
I walk through the doors. The sun has shown up and pushed the night aside. I look everywhere, but Night has vanished. All eyes and ears of it. And like you, nothing but a scrap of its heart left behind.