What the Body Knows

My hand reached for the phone before my brain

woke up. Muscle knows something the mind

is still negotiating with.

The alarm screamed at 6 a.m.

and my body was already

sitting up, already reaching for water,

already clearing its throat for a day

that doesn't exist anymore.

I learned that you are not the person

you thought you were. You are a sequence

of motions that someone else

decided were necessary. When they stop

deciding, you keep going anyway.

For weeks. For months maybe.

The desk in my living room

has a rectangle where the laptop lived.

Dust has a different color there.

I keep expecting it to reappear,

like my body is still waiting

for the morning it's supposed to defend.

There's nothing here now but the habit

of showing up, and nowhere to show.