harsh granite
The tea’s still on the counter.
I don’t drink it.
I pour it out without ceremony.
That feels like something too.
The floor is cold under my feet.
I stand there barefoot,
like I’m trying to prove to the universe
that I can feel things again.
Turns out—
I can.
There’s a playlist on in the background,
nothing dramatic, just lo-fi and soft piano,
but it fills the silence
in a way I don’t resent.
I open the window.
Let the night air in.
It smells like concrete and distant rain.
I take a deep breath.
It doesn't fix anything,
but it doesn’t have to.
I pick the towel up off the floor.
I hang it up.
Not for someone else to see,
not because I’m better now,
but because it’s time.
The mirror catches me again.
This time I stop.
Look.
Really look.
Not for flaws.
Not for ghosts.
Just… to witness.
And for once, I don’t feel like a stranger
in my own skin.
I crawl into bed.
No fanfare, no final thought
to wrap it all in ribbon.
Just the soft exhale of existing
without apology.
Tomorrow will come.
And maybe I’ll make tea again.
Maybe I won’t.
But I’ll be here.
And for now—
for tonight—
that’s enough.
trim crow
thin ferry
haughty heath
umbral seal