Waning Days

In the waning days, I scrolled between documents and  crash screens, beating the heels of my hands to the rhythm of laminate wood. I chugged water before roll call and huddled in my compatriots’ doorways. The ghost left our unanswered letters in place, and we shrugged and said to each other, “Go get some sleep.”

In the waning days, my breadcrumb trails lit a diamond window—four corners of ladders. I took home the crowns of Spanish moss and saved them for January. I dug space on the landing for a sleeping bag, a tent. We held our breath and watched the sky fill with ice.  I knew I could hold out no matter what.