Between the Static

I wake with the taste of metal on my tongue—

Maybe a dream,

maybe the pipes leaking rust again.

The ceiling hums,

or is it my heart,

or is it a train somewhere pulling away without me?

I keep losing track of the mornings.

Coffee cools faster these days,

or maybe I just stare longer before touching it.

I think of the old swing outside,

ropes frayed, wood split,

a seat that never stopped creaking even in silence.

Sometimes I hear it at night—someone swinging,

but the yard is empty.

I imagine Clara’s shadow,

but I never say her name out loud anymore.

Words grow heavy when they wait too long.

A radio whispers through the wall,

static pretending to be music,

or maybe music pretending to be static.

I close my eyes.

Streetlights flicker behind them.

Doors open, doors close,

None of them mine.

And still, I sit here,

holding the morning like it might spill if I breathe too hard.