While you are away

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While you are away, cataloguing muted sitcoms
that play across the screen in the hospital room,
I am in our bed. The room is refrigerated,
window unit humming, wildfires streaking the air with soot.
A fan whirs to my left. All this white noise
makes it harder to miss you. I can barely hear my thoughts.
There is a long feeling to your absence, like you have been gone
a week or a month or a year and I’m still here, spinning:
weaving words into rows and then into clothes,
dressing myself in the dark.