BY RAE STACHOWSKI
Damp curls lay flat against his forehead.
For a moment, I consider keeping him
just a little while longer,
but I’ve already overstayed.
Train doors close between us, severing
the thin red string that binds him to me.
I wind the loose end into a ball and tuck it in my pocket.
Later, I will use it to crochet myself a heart
to nestle in the dead place of my chest
where the light never touches and nothing ever grows.
It will eventually rot like all the rest.