Empty Days Unspooling

I stare at the blank calendar,

every square a cold promise,

untouched, unforgiving in its white silence.

The pages flip slow under my fingers,

a steady slide of empty days

that stretch beyond the edge of hope,

a steady drip of time undone.

No scribbles, no marks,

just glossy emptiness staring back,

a knife-edge cutting through what could be,

and what will never be.

The quiet weight of nothing planned,

a slow unspooling of time

waiting to fill itself with anything

but this silence waiting to crack.