Three Months

The outlet stares at me.

Empty.

Dust gathered around it like it's been waiting,

like it knows I'm not going to do anything about it.

Three months in this apartment

and I keep walking past it.

The lamp is still in the bag in the closet,

tags on, receipt in the pocket.

I could plug it in.

Right now.

Take five minutes,

set the lamp down,

flip the switch.

But instead I come in here at night

and look at the empty corner,

look at the socket

that's ready for me,

and I think about all the things

I'm supposed to be doing

that I'm not.

The wall is darker there.

Dust shadow. Or just the dust

showing me where the light should be.

My partner asked me about it last week.

I said I'd get to it.

I meant it when I said it.

Now I just leave the bedroom dark

except for the streetlight

coming through the window,

and I pretend it's on purpose,

like I chose this,

like the empty socket isn't a mirror,

like I'm not the kind of person

who leaves things incomplete,

who sees what's needed

and just... doesn't.