Four days I didn't tell anyone

Four days. I didn't tell anyone.

Ate crackers in bed.

Checked the temperature twice a day

like taking minutes at a meeting

no one else attended.

On the fifth morning I woke up soaked.

Sheets cold. The thermometer said normal.

I pressed my forehead to the window.

Cold glass.

My breath fogged and cleared.

Fogged and cleared.

I stood there trying to find

the feeling I thought I'd have—

the door swinging open,

the sense of being given back.

But the room was the same room.

The same three things on the dresser.

The same crack in the ceiling.

Whatever had been decided

in the four days I was somewhere else

had been decided without me.

I peeled back the sheets.

Put the thermometer away.

Stood at the window a while longer,

my breath going out and coming back,

going out,

not sure yet what was different.