Collarbone

I’ve laid in bed a hundred nights and whispered a thousand names to myself, eyes closed and hands clasped together for warmth beneath my pillow.

Waves far off into the distance dance, and I trace the same pattern with imaginative hands from my thumb up to my collarbone.

When will it get to a thousand and one names?

Or will this be the one that remains engraved in my mind, echoing in a way the others did not, for their absence, caused by my thoughts absorbing them, still hangs heavy in my dreams.