Empty Desk

The room was bare but full of echoes.

Boxes stacked, half-filled,

a desk wiped clean of all but dust.

I sat on the floor, back to the wall,

staring at a blank patch where a calendar had been.

Silence stretched and folded over me.

You learn to hold yourself

when the world folds the page without warning.

Empty desk, empty hours,

waiting for the next line to come,

though you’re not sure it will.

And still the light moves across the wall,

stubborn as a pulse.