It is quiet in the apartment today.
It is quiet, but not too quiet. I opened the
windows, high, to feel the breeze.
When it rained, it was soft
and fast, but just loud enough that I could
pretend I was somewhere else.
It’s not that I’m hiding out in here. It’s just
that for the first time in weeks, I am really alone.
The phone doesn’t ring. I didn’t put on music.
I stretched out on the futon, dangling
my bare foot over the edge. I should have
been doing laundry. I should have been
cleaning the floors.
But it is quiet in the apartment today.
When I hear the cars pass by, I am reminded
that I am not alone.
My friend told me I don’t like to be alone.
I am tired of being told how I am. I am tired
of it all.
He asked me why, and I clenched my fists.
He begged me to try —
But that is all I had done for months,
only to feel like I failed.
I ran out of all my words.
I am not angry anymore. I am only quiet.
The cat sprawls upside down
across the rug. It’s kind of like that.
It is quiet. But not too quiet.