I sit in a chair that remembers my shape,
holding a day that never quite arrived.
Time moves past me like a train I don’t board—
I hear it, I feel the wind,
but I stay.
Words line up asking to mean something,
but meaning is tired too.
Every question sounds like an echo,
every answer asks for more than I have.
They say repeat, repeat—
as if repetition is healing,
as if saying it again makes it lighter.
But tired isn’t a loop.
It’s a weight.
Still, I’m here.
Not fixed. Not solved.
Just here, breathing through another minute,
letting the chair hold what I can’t.
And maybe that’s enough for today.
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