Wednesday Passed

Three days I checked the thread—

morning and lunch and before bed—

for the reply that would have changed

the plan I had, rearranged

the week. By Wednesday night

the plan had made itself. No slight

intended, probably. I dropped

the thread. By Thursday I had stopped

entirely—until I found

the tab still open. Zero. Sound

of the spreadsheet below it. Still

unread. I closed it. The fill

of whatever was behind it came

back to the screen. And then. The same

ceiling fan I hadn't heard

for three days, running. The word

for what I felt—I couldn't find it.

The plan was made. I put behind it

the tab, the thread. The fan. The fall

of nothing into nothing. That was all.