'Dust to Dust' by Michele Catalano

Your room is always dark. The lampshade is heavy and the bulb dim; they only make shadows of everything.

I run my finger along your desk. I hold back the urge to scrawl my name in the dust that clings to my pinky. I wipe it on your shirt, the one you wore the last time I saw you. It hangs on the bedpost, a ghost of you with loose arms and wrinkles and a fading marker stain on the sleeve.

Your bed is cold and sinks down in the middle. I rock back and forth, arms folded inside themselves, legs crossed, a piece of hair caught on my dry lip. I touch your pillow, craving its familiarity. 

I imagine you’re here. You tuck my hair behind my ear, annoyed that it always ends up in my mouth. I promise to get a haircut. You promise to introduce me to your friends. I stop imagining.

I touch the snow globe on your desk, the one with the taxicabs and synthetic snow falling down on plastic people. I shake and the snow falls and falls and no matter how hard I shake, the people always smile and the little taxi never goes anywhere.

I crawl back into your bed and remember the way it felt to have your arm draped across me. I remember how you laughed in your sleep. I will myself to feel the weight of your arm on me, to hear the dry whisper of your last good night.

It’s starting to snow, light puffs of white slapping against the window. I imagine I’m in the snow globe and I’m always smiling and the clock never moves and the headlights never appear outside the window, making me tumble from the bed and toward the back door.