She folded the top sheet
twice, then unfolded it,
then folded it again.
The bed was already
made. The room was too
quiet, but not the kind
of quiet that rests —
the kind that waits.
Outside, a car passed
with its music too loud.
She stood at the window
until the sound
disappeared. Then she got
back into bed, still in
her clothes, and let the
loneliness stay without
asking it to leave.
Some nights are just
practice in being present
with yourself.