Empty Days

The screen glows, blank—no scribbles, no stains,

a digital void where noise once reigned.

Days scrubbed clean like a window wiped,

no ticking clocks, no plans hyped.

I sit with the silence, loud in its tease,

a calendar empty, a slow disease.

This white space stretches, a wide, mute sky,

a promise undone, a held-back sigh.

Nothing to mark the hours that crawl,

nothing to catch me if I fall.