Not Gone, Not Here, Not Either

Wednesday. Nothing wrong.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

I pulled into level three —

the one with the fluorescent that buzzes

slightly left of center, always —

turned off the engine

and sat.

The yellow stripe on the pillar

directly in front of the windshield.

Safety yellow. The kind that means

this is a thing you can hit.

I looked at it for twenty-two minutes.

Not crying. Nothing clinical.

Just —

not going in.

Not the work. Not the elevator.

Not my name in anyone's inbox.

Not even here, in the car,

with the buzzing and the stripe —

I wanted to be nowhere, specifically.

Not dead. I want to be clear about that.

More like — the way a number

rounds down to zero

without becoming a negative.

Just not.

Not present.

Not findable.

Twenty-two minutes.

I know because I checked

when I finally opened the door.

The light kept buzzing.

That same half-note off,

like it was almost music.

I went in.

I was on time.