farewell to his box fan | Sydney Wright

SYDNEY WRIGHT

muggy lunar hours on the ground floor of our residence hall spent in a yard-sale couch, upon its exhausted blue upholstery. i feign a laugh with your owner, as the clock’s digital numbers seeped into the morning silence of midnight.

i should have never come. for Thursday marked the third time this week. we both know that when he reached for me, like a boat tethered to a dock, the touch should’ve propelled me to bob away.

the silhouette of your square frame, in a room as dim as a sealed crate, consumed the image of panic when saying

no no thanks i’m not okay with this

became a dry reservoir.

grit began to drape itself over you, as your owner draped himself over me. Monday’s final breath greets Tuesday with the same solemn news: of us again on your owners granulated tile floor, composed of standard issue, chewed green-gum colored squares.

never conjoined with an outlet, your daisy-petal blades were sedentary. i’ll miss how still, how calm you were, like the stagnant air of September.