Unmarked

January sits empty, staring back at me,

February blank, March the same.

The calendar waits, patient and free,

for someone to come and write down their name,

their plans, their trips, their appointments in blue—

proof of a life, proof of something to do.

Last year by now I'd booked my flights,

marked down the dates, written the times.

The calendar was full of delights,

proof that I'd planned, that my life had climbed

toward something, somewhere, some version of me

that had destinations and things to see.

This year I pick up the pen

and I can't make a mark.

The blank squares wait again,

patient in their emptiness, dark,

holding their breath for me to decide

if there's anything worth on the other side.

The pen cap stays on.

The calendar stays bare.

I don't know if I'm planning anymore,

or just waiting here,

watching the squares, watching the light

move across the page at night.