Not only this

What is it exactly that has passed through my fingers without me even knowing? I still feel its brush against my aging check. I dreamt of it last night. It startled me awake and when I fell back to sleep I lost it. All that remains is the shape of hollowness. It lingers even now at the end of this day that has taken more than I had in me to give it. I do not blame others for how much they want from me of what I can't give them and what they seem incapable of giving me, nor do I blame myself for this. I only want these few moments I have stolen from the day and horded in this folded napkin stuffed in my pocket.  I unfold it now, examine it in the stillness of this quiet room. It's not that I am glad that they have fallen asleep so I may stay awake these few more minutes. It's just that there's no other way for me. I don't know why this act of lamentation brings such peace. I only know it is singular to me in this moment and if not now poured out then not only this but everything is lost.