Insomnia & Octopus Traps

I can't do the NYT mini anymore without crying,
but you started doing them alone even when I still sat next to you,
asking for a clue.
I inch through the days pushing thoughts of you aside,
then night time sneaks up on me and I see you
even when I close my eyes.
Fifth grade teaches facts about
sea creatures,
stars,
and the human body.
When my kid tells me to guess how many hearts an octopus has, all I think of is a takotsubo.
The trap thought jumps to sushi, jumps to New Years Eve, to meditation, and then back to you and me.
My head is a pinball machine, you and I are the carbon steel that just keeps blasting off and bouncing around inside of it.
There's one street camera in the town where my heart no longer lives,
and it points to a bench that we used to sit on together.
Sometimes I'll imagine sitting there laughing with you,
and I wish that the street camera had recorded us. I could travel back in time at any point.
But since time travel is impossible,
and you've deemed us impossible too,
I'll just keep shutting my eyes,
and dreaming of me and you.