Detached Yet Whole

I wake to the scrape of the kettle on the stove, the faint hiss of water finding its boil. The day begins not with purpose, but with the weightless drift of a leaf settling where it may. The streets are a quiet shuffle of feet, faces turning toward their own horizons. I do not follow their lines or their whispers; their stories are not mine to carry. I pass them like stray clouds— near enough to notice, far enough to forget. There is no hunger in me for what lies beyond. The walls of my life are neither wide nor narrow; they fit me as they are. I do not dream of breaking them down, nor do I long for higher ceilings. At night, I sit by the window watching headlights thread through the dark like fireflies. The city hums its endless song; I hum nothing back. This is enough: the kettle’s whistle, the rhythm of steps on pavement, the soft collapse of another day into itself. -