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.
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