but, at least
The air is ordinary,
flat as the ceiling.
I am not dissolved, not broken,
just waiting—
she's slipping into the woods,
a small vanishing act of trees and smoke.
I stay behind,
a houseplant without a window.
London is a name I repeat
like a charm I can’t afford,
a place I am supposed to belong to
but do not step into.
I am still here,
checking my pulse against
the dull clock of the day.
I say I am not okay—
but the walls do not echo back.
When I count it all,
the bones line up straight,
the cupboards hold food,
the phone rings,
and no one has died.
My worries are real enough
to feel like teeth grazing skin,
but when I press harder,
they dissolve into smoke.
Not tragedy. Not the black lake.
Only the unease of living,
the itch of wanting more.
I hold it close anyway—
this almost-pain,
this not-quite-sorrow.
Because at least it is mine.
Because at least it is not worse.
And yet,
so I say: but, at least—
the worst thing in my hands
is time,
and not death.
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