Lines Between Living

Four and a half hours,

and Sunday was thinning out,

leaving Monday behind its shadow.

Was still in bed

not buried,

just listening before the week speaks first.

The list waits from across the room,

polite in its pressure.

Unchecked boxes.

A future that wants motion

before it wants truth.

I don’t rush to answer.

The blankets don’t negotiate.

The pillows don’t demand readiness.

My thoughts move like birds at dawn

restless,

but not directionless.

This isn’t avoidance.

It’s calibration.

Monday always asks who I am

before I’ve decided.

Today, I decide anyway.

Not clones.

Not discipline disguised as punishment.

Not the lie that rest is laziness.

Just one page.

Where the journal opens the door

and the poem walks through.

I don’t need to carry the whole week.

Only to step into it

without abandoning myself.

So I write

as a way of arriving.