Maybe it’s nothing

Maybe it’s nothing, but I wanted to tell you
the lights don’t flicker like they used to.
The wind doesn’t blow the hats off trees
when the sky cries in the morning.

Instead, the birds sing stories as they swim in the clouds,
and the doctor talks like a scientist.
Rhythm repeating sounds like a drum,
thrumming in the space between life and death.

That’s what the doctor says
You’re between life and death

Fingers claw at something like skin
Air comes in short, stiff waves

Death opens the door
and waves farewell

It’s nothing.
He’s just going away for a while

But the living room runs a fever in your absence
lurches forward,
holding back the soft drip of bile
when it opens its mouth to ask
if you’ve come back yet.

The kitchen still stutters, hesitates,
flinches when I come too close.
The attic still winces
when we listen to her
failing breath.

Maybe it’s nothing
I just thought you should know
The house remembers how to wait
in your absence.