First, I evict the day
from the rented room of my head,
one thought at a time,
though some leave fingerprints
on the windows.
I dim the lights
so my brain stops pretending
it is a small committee
with urgent minutes to approve.
No doom-scrolling,
that glittering little goblin
with breaking news
and no bedtime.
I make tea,
not because tea is magic,
but because my hands need a ritual
and my nervous system likes
a warm suggestion.
I tell my worries
they may return tomorrow
between nine and ten,
preferably with bullet points
and better manners.
Then I breathe
as though my body is an old garden gate
that has forgotten
it can open without creaking.
In bed, I do not chase sleep.
Sleep is a cat.
Chase it, and it vanishes
under the furniture of the mind.
So I lie still,
softly unavailable
to the world’s nonsense,
and let the dark
do its quiet work.
Some nights, I drift
like a boat untied.
Other nights,
I simply rest
in the harbour
and count that
as holy enough.
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