In the dark,
I can see the light defined
by shadow
as I stand in that space in between
like a fist, half-opened.

I see Sylvester through the window
His neck curved like wilted celery
as he opens the fridge
for a carton of milk.

The milk settles into the clear glass
pristine,
a clean white
token of midnight
Sylvester drinks with one hand braced to the sink
His body steadied by stainless steel.

I knew then
I’d be a lifelong witness
of these solitary
acts of comfort: the incremental fulfillment

And, also, a witness
of spilled milk, wasted and thinning
a stretching white island
of loss.