the light comes in sideways now, the color of weak tea. i put down what i’m holding and watch it cross the floor. nothing happens, which is the whole appeal.

the grass is bent the way the wind left it. the puddles keep a flat grey sky. i came out to think and mostly just stood there — which, it turns out, was the thinking.

drink the water. open the curtain before you decide anything. whatever tonight concluded, keep it as a draft. morning is less dramatic than it pretends, and it always comes early.

there’s a pause the water takes before it comes back. i like standing in it — not the wave, not the quiet after, just the held breath in between, where nothing’s been settled yet.

took the road along the water because i wasn’t in the mood to be quick about it. salt, diesel, something green. home wasn’t going anywhere. some nights the point is only to still be moving.

the same tree, the same crooked lamp, a man who’s grown familiar just by passing at the same hour. i’ve liked most rooms for what they let me watch happen somewhere else.

the kettle worked. the bus waited. i found the sock. nothing worth reporting on its own, which is exactly the kind of hour that keeps a day from coming apart.

i stood in the doorway long enough to learn its width. coat half on, the sentence unsaid. i didn’t leave. but i know now how the hinge feels under a hand that hasn’t decided, and the room was different after.