Epektasis

At night the body stops pretending.
The heart does not argue—it stutters,
misses a beat, then keeps going
out of habit.

The room loses its edges.
The dark presses its mouth
to the furniture, the floor, my face.
I wait for it to speak.
It doesn’t.

I want a sign.
I want the failure to mean
more than chemistry
going briefly wrong.
I want a voice to say: this mattered.

Instead—breath catches.
A pulse goes loud.
The ceiling sags closer than it should.
My name drifts past, unclaimed,
like a coat on the back of a chair.

Words arrive without sentences.
Heat.
Again.
Don’t.
They move sideways,
break syntax.
Night allows this.

Once, the body gave out completely.
Meaning rushed in—
hands everywhere,
consoling,
lying beautifully.
I held on.

Now I tell myself: nothing chose you.
You are not spared.
You are not a message.
This keeps the heart working.

It keeps its small appointment.
No announcement.
Just now.
Just again.

By morning the house resumes
its daytime grammar.
Light returns to its places.
My family wakes, intact.

The heart keeps going.
The night lets go.
Something unnamed
stays with me.