Flickering Light

Long before the station signed off,

we stopped reaching

for the remote.

The screen became

snowfall that never settled,

only hovered

between our faces

turned in opposite directions.

You said the hiss

helped you sleep.

I let you believe

it was the television.

In the beginning,

I measured the night

by your breathing,

counting each slow inhale

until sleep cradled me too.

Now, I count the flicker,

the restless swarm

of scrambled pictures

trying and failing

to appear whole.

We quit saying goodnight,

but the word remained,

lost somewhere in our house.

Neither of us went looking for it.

Static became

the only language

we spoke fluently.

It answered

every question

we refused to ask,

filled every silence

before we heard

what was missing.

Its flickering light

found the space

between our shoulders,

resting like a blanket

neither of us pulled away.

Some nights,

I imagined every white speck

was a sentence

that never reached you.

I'm sorry.

Stay.

I love you.

Thousands of them

colliding on the screen,

trapped behind the glass.

When the power went out,

the snow stopped falling.

No hiss.

No flicker.

Only the unfamiliar sound

of your breathing,

close enough to touch,

strange enough

that I wondered

when I had stopped knowing you.