Tuesday, then Tuesday again.
The calendar's still on the wrong month.
I wake up fine for four seconds.
Then I remember, and the day starts.
Bread turns to paper in my mouth.
Forty-one messages, none of them opened.
Your sister talks. I hear the shape.
Not the words — just the shape of them.
Somebody laughs in the other room.
It comes through like a closed door.
I'm not crying. I'm folding a shirt.
There's a hum where the music was.
The days go past like cars outside.
I stay in the chair until it's dark.
Static, low and even. The screen stays on.
The spider plant went brown in June.
Nobody watered it. I watched it go.
I made two cups again this morning.
Poured one down the drain at noon.
A car turns in the drive, then goes.
The mail sits where I dropped it.
Three weeks of it by the door.
Nobody's coming up the stairs.
I'm not crying. I'm folding a shirt.
There's a hum where the music was.
Static, low and even. The screen stays on.
The kettle boiled. I didn't get up.
It clicked off. I boiled it again.
Steam went white across the window.
am I still burning?
No one answers. The kettle clicks off.
I wipe the glass and sit down.
Tuesday, then Tuesday again.
I'll wake up fine for four seconds.
Then I'll remember. Then the day.
