The space between my ribs feels tight, like a caught bird. Still reaching for her side of the bed, still half expecting her to laugh at me for it. god, the softness of her laugh, like a sweater you could sink into. i keep expecting to see her face in the grief group at st. mark's, like she just ducked out for coffee but she’ll be back. it's stupid. but that's the way it is, isn't it, like a glitch in reality, where she might still be somewhere nearby laughing.