What Stays Still

I've been here five times in two years.

Each time, the same tile.

Yellow stain in the corner, shaped almost like

something on a map I never bothered to learn.

The doctor takes her time.

The results take their time.

But the tile is always right there,

exactly where I left it.

Everything else changes.

My blood work. My skin. The way I sleep.

The way I can't sleep.

But the tile stays.

The stain doesn't spread.

It doesn't fade.

It just sits there, holding its shape,

like it knows something about permanence

that I don't.

I stare at it while waiting to hear

if my body is betraying me.

The tile has already betrayed itself.

It's been dying slowly for years,

and it's still here.

Still here.

Still stained.

Still the same.

The nurse will call my name.

The results will change everything or nothing.

But I'll come back.

And the tile will be waiting.