IN REPLY TO MY FRIENDS, WHEN THEY ASK HOW I AM

I say I’m fine, and I try to mean it.

The truth is quieter than that

I brush my teeth twice, sometimes three times,

just to feel like something is clean.

I stare at the laundry like it’s a puzzle.

Some days, I win. Some days, I wear what’s on the floor.

I drink my coffee cold, even when it’s hot.

I rearrange books I haven’t read.

I light candles and forget them.

I rehearse answers to questions no one asks.

I hum old songs into empty rooms.

Sometimes I speak out loud,

just to see if my voice still fits.

I walk through the grocery store

like a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

I smile at strangers. I save memes.

I say “let’s catch up soon” and mean it,

but not today, maybe not next week.

I sit with silence like it’s company.

My body remembers laughter

the way walls remember music, faintly.

Grief leaks through the floorboards.

Hope shows up in strange places

a photo from 2019, a perfectly ripe peach,

a stranger’s dog that wants to be pet.

I write your names in the margins.

I pray without shape or form.

I do not ask for answers,

only for time to pass gently,

for the ache to settle

into something I can carry.

So yes

I’m fine,

and also, I am surviving.