788 nights—
Some of them not his alone.
Exceptions—
Silence softened. Sometimes shattered.
Laughter filled the space.
(Could it be trusted?)
Touches told new stories.
But still, one side was his.
The void required no reservation.
He kept one anyway.
Saving a spot for what?
Memories? Ghosts?
Promises? (noble bullshit?)
The 789th night—
A brittle leaf, breezing right,
Freed from the branch of old habits.
Loosed at last.
In the center,
remembering what he knew.
