White Squares

I opened the calendar to March.

Just white squares,

clean as a surgeon's gown.

No appointments, no birthdays,

no faded circles around days I should remember.

Just the grid.

A perfect, empty grid.

And the numbers marching,

oblivious.

Each box a small, blank door,

and I stood outside them all.

The ink I’d planned to use,

a bold blue,

felt like a lie waiting to happen.

What was I saving it for?

This blankness,

staring back.