Zebra Seeking Spoons

Wrote it in ink.

Circled it in hopeful yellow.

Set reminders.

Laid out clothes.

Told people,

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

My body did not sign the contract.

Morning arrives like a quiet cancellation.

Not dramatic.

Just heavy.

Just impossible in small, undeniable ways.

The joints vote no.

The nerves spark static.

Fatigue pulls the curtains closed

from the inside.

I rehearse apologies

before I even sit up.

There is a particular grief

in watching your own life

happen without you.

The calendar squares stay filled

while you stay still.

Friends gather.

Opportunities move on.

The world keeps excellent time.

And here I am,

renegotiating with gravity.

It isn’t flakiness.

It isn’t lack of will.

It isn’t poor planning.

It is a body

that sometimes changes the terms

without warning.

I am learning

that following through

can mean something different now.

Sometimes it means

texting instead of showing up.

Sometimes it means

showing up late.

Sometimes it means

staying home

and choosing not to break myself

for proof.

The old version of me

measured worth

in kept promises.

This version

is learning to measure worth

in honesty.

I did not fail the plan.

The plan simply did not account

for the weather inside me.

And tomorrow—

if the skies clear even a little—

I will try again.