Life’s been good to me lately,
even if it’s dull.
Even if the days blur like smudges
on a forgotten windowpane.

​

Not much to complain about,
and maybe that’s the problem.
I don’t mind the quiet.
I just don’t feel much in it.

​

Too still. Too stoic.
I skip the calls, ignore the invites,
waste hours in trivial spirals,
then call it peace.

​

My partner’s fine,
we laugh, we fight, we move on.
Nothing too loud,
nothing worth writing home about.

​

The days pass soft and shapeless.
I dream of better ones,
then realize they already came
and left without a sound.

​

So I cope.
I walk.
I sleep.
Repeat.
Nothing breaks.
Nothing hurts.
And maybe that’s enough,
or maybe that’s just what I’ve settled for.