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.