The heavy of his arm around
her shoulders, the lack of weight—
how it sits there like a machine fitting,
clock-watch piece.
The dust in his voice lies
thick under her chest.
She knows his closet is full
and the bodies are fresh
but she presses against
the door with him. Spring
cleaning is months away. It’s fall now,
so she presses her hands to his
warm coat, her hands against
his chest feel beat to breath—
beat to breath. Close her eyes
and pray to an unknown god,
pray the planes will pass,
pray he isn’t looking back.
First published on Cadence Collective.
Sarah Thursday 
Beautiful poem.
Thank you!