Sealing the Jar

The air in the hallway just gave up.

One heavy, vacuum-sealed thud against the frame

and the dust motes stopped their frantic climbing,

hanging frozen in the light from the transom.

I sit at the table with the coffee getting a skin,

staring at a bill for a life I’m not sure I’m living.

The lock clicks, a final mechanical syllable,

and the silence pours in through the vents.

Everything in this house is suddenly finished.

There is no one to watch me blink,

no one to hear the floorboards settle,

just the pressure of the four walls holding their breath.