Empty Days

The calendar lies open, wide and white,

no ink to bleed, no marks to write.

Edges curl like pages undone,

a week of silence, no race to run.

No names, no times, no boxed-in plans,

just blank squares like empty hands.

Each day a pause, a hollow sound,

a quiet house, no guests around.

I stare — the stillness folds my breath,

a hollow room where time cheats death.

An absence loud, a sheet unstained,

a breath held tight, unexplained.