Borrowed Silence

I fold the day into itself like a paper crane

crease by crease, until my thumb aches.

The kitchen light flickers—cheap bulb, old habit—

and the sink keeps whispering its small metal hymn.

✧

You used to leave notes on the counter

in handwriting that leaned forward, impatient,

as if the words were already late.

✧

Now it’s just receipts, a dead battery,

and a spoon that keeps turning up in the wrong drawer.

I don’t even own that drawer, technically.

✧

Outside, the streetlamp makes the rain look rehearsed,

Each drop trying its best to be a star.

I stand by the window and practice not calling you.

✧

My phone is face-down like a guilty animal.

Some nights I swear it breathes.

I tell myself I’m fine—

Then I laugh, and it comes out crooked.

✧

I remember the way you said “tomorrow”

like it was a place we could actually go.

Now tomorrow feels rented.

✧

I make tea. I forget it. I make it again.

The steam fogs my glasses and for a second

The world blurs into something kinder.

✧

In the blur, I see it:

a moon made of paper, taped to the dark,

holding its shape because I asked it to.

✧

It isn’t bright, not really.

But it’s mine, and it glows enough to argue with.