meanwhile

I keep knocking on the future like it's a door I've been invited to, but no one ever answers.

The furniture ages. The light shifts. I do, too. But the center of the room never moves.

I try new words for wanting. I try silence. I try being reasonable with my own hope. None of it rearranges the math.

Change shows up as maintenance. Fixes a crack. Paints over a stain. Calls it mercy.

I'm not bored. I'm not restless. I'm stalled in a place that keeps breathing without going anywhere.

I want a before and an after. I keep getting meanwhile.

And every night I lie down with the quiet understanding that wanting is not the same thing as permission.