Last night, I woke up
covered in cobwebs
and made friends
with the spiders
that live on your half
of the bed.
I slept on my side to see
them spin their threads
together, spelling out your name,
web-colored, hanging
over my head.
I told them about
how I wish you’d crawl
in between sheets
and breaths, but they crawled
into my ears instead
and told me
you’ll never come

home. But in dreams,
you visit me,
eight-legged, with stories
of where you’ve been.
Half-asleep, I whisper to the air
eight-day litanies of your spiderwebs
staying, my friends in my ears
telling me

that your legs have taken
you elsewhere, far from
your half of the bed.
Your name, still hanging,
as they cover me in cobwebs.