What should I have done? I can keep telling you how I’m fighting this choking. How my skin just won’t settle. I can pray to pounding eardrums, but the heat from my hairline will keep pulsing either way. There’s no peaceful resolution for a phantom limb, and mine is always dragging you across time warps. The ghost of a finger slices through the years and folds back the edges. I could sing a hymn to empty spaces, but that only ever leaves us slipping through the vacancy. I can’t contort this to the proper shape. So here we are, me stitching the divide, just the same as always. I fear that the cloth can’t handle another cut. I fear that we’re losing the thread of this. Losing the form, the foundation. I should have drafted a precipice. I should have curled my toes, dug myself into earth, I should have never let go.