Something that Look Like Calm

11:42 PM

I wish I could hate you,

but the city won’t let me file that form.

The window says maintenance.

The cursor thinks I’m exaggerating.

I wish I were the variable you needed,

the constant you solved for without notes,

instead I’m the margin math you erase

before anyone sees what it cost.

You were the answer I would not speak.
I was the question you refused to read.
How could you grasp the bruise of staying
when I learned to pass inspection by not bleeding.

I kept a seat for your arrival.

Gate open, announcement pending.

The board kept changing times,

and I kept pretending clocks were loyal.

I waited like infrastructure:

quiet, load-bearing, unpraised.

I set out the cups, labeled the drawers,

trained my hands not to shake when nothing arrived.

I told myself not to blame myself.

Then translated blame into efficiency:

reduce warmth, conserve motion,

call the ache a policy decision.

I wish I could hate you,

but you were the exit I memorized in a burning room.

I wish I could hate you,

so I could walk out without counting the steps twice.

You never came. That’s the headline.

The footnote says I understood.

Understanding is the softest prison.

Doors open, sentence ongoing.

So I archive the noise,
live at a volume that passes for peace,
and keep the light like a statistic:
low, steady, deniable.

If anyone asks, it’s about weather.

About timetables. About a house that keeps its shape.

Only I know it’s a body relearning
how to leave without leaving.

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