A Wake, Adrift – Matt Neil Hill

Awake Adrift

I’d been pretending, these last few days, that you’d run away to your sister’s again, and when I saw you drifting through our home it was my insomnia projecting daydreams on thin air – your finger in the dust that’d settled on the sideboard, enjoying its hiatus from persecution – but now, in the crowd of blurred faces, another glass pressed into my hand, seasick slop of whiskey across my knuckles, your shadowed form passing through the wall with barely a backward glance, satisfied somehow, it sinks in, finally: the priest’s words, long ago, about death, and how it would part us.

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