on my mark

If ever there was a day for refusing to speak, for counting the tiny hairs that run along the back of my wrist. Brushing the dead weight on my chest off to the side, pouring the unmatched coffee back into the pot. I hear echoes of a guttural growling, and then realize it's because there's a bird perched on the bush under my window. I've been sitting here for two hours waiting for the chronology to reset, waiting for four years ago to line up with today. I have sore muscles--stiff, at least--and a lack of foresight and
I think,
I'm running away
for the day.