once more.

there’s a steady, hushed roar of static
coming from the tv in the next room over. 
my door’s closed, but i can still hear the
awful tearing and growling of lost signal.

i say steady because it’s been constant,
blaring its loss for anyone who will listen (me).
it’s your tv and your room, and this time,
i don’t know if you’re home or if you’ve left.

in bed, my bones seem sharper, brittle. 
i look at my wrist—the angle of my
forearm is like the bow of a violin.
we’ve forgotten to bring our resin.

the static seems louder at night.
surely, it can’t be as easy as sliding out 
of bed, crossing the room, and opening
the door—it couldn’t be.