Saturday, 13°C, windless.
The rotary phone on the floor
does not ring.
The dentist's chair
does not recline.
The calendar pinned to the sky
does not turn its page.
I am the held breath
between two weeks—
the one that asked too much
and the one still deciding.
There is a frequency
below which sound becomes
just pressure on the chest.
That is where I live tonight.
The stars are making lists
I cannot read.
The floorboards dissolve
if I look too long.
Nothing happened.
Nothing needed to.
The body knew before the mind:
this emptiness
is not empty.
It is full of having stopped.