the persistent hum behind my left ear, a phantom echo of something that's not even there anymore, it started when that song came on shuffle, just a sudden jolt like a ghost hand on my shoulder, and for a second it was all back, the way the walls looked when they were closing in, the taste of ash in my mouth like i'd been breathing in burning paper, and then it wasn't, not really, just the echo of the echo, the idea of the hurt, and the laundromat rumble below my feet, a steady thrum through the floorboards, that’s real, that’s right now, and the way the dust motes used to dance, i can still see them sometimes, a pattern on the wooden floor like a story that got erased but the faint lines remain, just lines, no real meaning left except the fact they existed, and i just poured another cup of coffee, not to anchor myself, not anymore, just because that’s what i do, and it’s okay for things to just be what they are.