I wake up from dreams of apple orchards.
I wake up cold.
There is nothing in the bathroom mirror — steam helps along old magic tricks I never learned. Where there was once a girl, there is now only her absence. I brush my teeth in the in-between — behind the trap door, where it’s safe to rub the sleep from my eyes.
In my bedroom, where I’ve reappeared behind the glass, I pull my hair back away from my face. The dampness lingers. Underneath the covers and sheets sleeps another heart that never holds its breath, or tries to link rings.
I wonder what he dreams about.
I hope he’s warm.