When was the last time the floor tilted.

When was the last time the glass hummed.

When was the last time the lungs filed a complaint.

When was the last time the lights forgot my name.

I wish it lived far back in the archive.

Today, the air miscalculates.

My head drafts an exit memo.

Good things dim like screensavers;

the rest stays pinned.

Sleep is a hallway with motion sensors,

step once and alarms.

Speech is a form to be filed,

every answer invites an audit.

So I practice forgetting

like it’s a second language.

No more theater in the skull.

Unsubscribe from storms.

I tell the shadow at the door:

wrong address.

It doesn’t leave.

Apparently it has a key I never issued.

It waits like a stray with my handwriting.

We are poorly matched soulmates:

it drinks my air; I set out clean bowls.

Inside, something red writes without ink.

Even so, something recalibrates.

I am not the only light on this street.

Not every hand is a ledger.

Little storm, you are not always wrong.

The answer I kept outsourcing circles back with my face.

Weak is a weather report, not a name.

Today is a low tide, not a prophecy.

Good days are queueing by the door.

I will not cancel them.