FREE WEEKS
Once every passing, in a pattern amidst thirty,
I offer my regret like a palm held open and empty,
The calendar knows before I do. It rattles in my bones.
My knees crumble like paper, vibrating and percussive.
Joy thins out quietly, anxiety knocks, but I never answer,
I apologize for the quiet weeks I called ordinary,
I’m sorry for mistaking mercy as a default.
I fold into myself and whisper promises upward.
In two weeks tops,
I will forget this pain.
And that will be the cruelest part.
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