I feel like there’s a hole in my heart, a void in my life that can’t be filled. I suppose it can and one day will, but for now I sit in bed, in this too large hotel in downtown Detroit, and am empty. I go out to fill myself up, then come back and retreat into sleep before it drains away. I pretend I’m okay. This is the third time, and if two makes true, then three makes good on bad decisions. The sunlight peaks in at me, but I draw the blinds, draw a bath, and draw inward, pining with numb fingers at the emptiness, touching the edges like a tender wound. One’s life is a mirror, among other things, and lately I’ve been saddened by the reflection. There’s nothing here for me, and the location doesn’t matter. We pay for our tutelage with suffering, but what lesson am I learning now? I wish it were clearer. I wish I saw a path forward, a reason to continue, but I don’t. I just feel heavy.

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