I was never prepared to lose you. I lived far away—a safe distance from the sound of battle. Some nights I couldn't sleep imagining you not at home. Though some nights I could sleep. I wonder how you slept, your skull smooth on the pillow. B tells me stories about her sister who is trapped in time at 9. How heavy can
surrendered love feel in our throats. How easy it is to text you a joke, to swap photos on our phones. Today you turn 27. I will cut my hair— the smallest gesture and think of you. I will think of how it felt to put my whole hand on your bald head. How I can never be prepared for anything like that.