#27. December, Maybe.
The days fall
out of sequence again.
The fork
appears before the hand,
then the window –
then the question:
“Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?”
⸻
Someone says something kind.
She touches it
with gloves on.
The compliment writhes a little.
She leaves it
on the counter.
Later, it becomes a drawer.
She labels it misc.,
and never checks what it stands for.
⸻
There was a time
she almost left everything.
Not for elsewhere,
not for peace.
Just to see
if distance had a sound –
like breath,
but longer.
⸻
Her body keeps placing
memory in her teeth.
She chews around it.
It does not dissolve.
She pretends it’s a seed.
⸻
The mirror has stopped pretending.
It shows her
as she is:
a container of rooms,
some of which
have not been opened.
Some of which
cannot be re‑entered
without hearing
the sentence she didn’t say.
⸻
One of the rooms contains:
a chair.
a ledger.
a door.
She sits.
She listens.
She does not forgive.
But she
no longer
explains.
⸻
She writes poems now
in a language
she doesn’t speak.
The dogs understand.
They tilt their heads
in the correct rhythm.
They don’t mind the mistakes.
⸻
There’s a plan
made of wires.
Thin ones.
They hum.
It ends in December.
Or begins.
Or folds.
⸻
She no longer distinguishes
between almost free,
and no longer performing collapse.
She once tried to scream that
into a filing cabinet.
The drawer stuck.
She considered arson.
Lit a match
in her mind.
Wondered what would catch first –
the drawer,
or the part of her
still trying to explain it.
⸻
She dreams sometimes
of being recognised
by no one
in particular.
In the dream, someone claps.
A little too early.
She wakes
before knowing why.
out of sequence again.
The fork
appears before the hand,
then the window –
then the question:
“Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?”
⸻
Someone says something kind.
She touches it
with gloves on.
The compliment writhes a little.
She leaves it
on the counter.
Later, it becomes a drawer.
She labels it misc.,
and never checks what it stands for.
⸻
There was a time
she almost left everything.
Not for elsewhere,
not for peace.
Just to see
if distance had a sound –
like breath,
but longer.
⸻
Her body keeps placing
memory in her teeth.
She chews around it.
It does not dissolve.
She pretends it’s a seed.
⸻
The mirror has stopped pretending.
It shows her
as she is:
a container of rooms,
some of which
have not been opened.
Some of which
cannot be re‑entered
without hearing
the sentence she didn’t say.
⸻
One of the rooms contains:
a chair.
a ledger.
a door.
She sits.
She listens.
She does not forgive.
But she
no longer
explains.
⸻
She writes poems now
in a language
she doesn’t speak.
The dogs understand.
They tilt their heads
in the correct rhythm.
They don’t mind the mistakes.
⸻
There’s a plan
made of wires.
Thin ones.
They hum.
It ends in December.
Or begins.
Or folds.
⸻
She no longer distinguishes
between almost free,
and no longer performing collapse.
She once tried to scream that
into a filing cabinet.
The drawer stuck.
She considered arson.
Lit a match
in her mind.
Wondered what would catch first –
the drawer,
or the part of her
still trying to explain it.
⸻
She dreams sometimes
of being recognised
by no one
in particular.
In the dream, someone claps.
A little too early.
She wakes
before knowing why.
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