The pale envelope sits

The pale envelope sits

against the cluttered table—

forgotten receipts curl like dead leaves,

coffee rings faded, like stains on my patience.

I pace the length of the kitchen,

fingers twitching against the wallpaper's grain.

Outside, the day folds into itself,

the light soft, unsure.

The phone's silence stretches, a thin thread

pulled tight across a canyon.

Every ring, every pause,

is the weight of something I can’t yet hold.

I watch the bent corner of the envelope,

trace the crease that might open or close the world.

Here, between a breath and the next,

I wait, skin raw,

for what hasn’t come.