re|act: re|◇
They pulled me from whatever I was drowning in. Can't remember if it was water or just tuesday.
There's light here. The softer kind that suggests maybe everything's alright. There's food that appears when I sleep. It doesn't mold, and tastes like someone cared. Now there's a window that shows trees I've never seen.
They move through spaces. Sometimes three, sometimes six. Wearing uniforms or just what people wear when they're watching someone reassemble. The note says, the shower runs hot after seven seconds and the pills are for morning, in handwriting that might be my mother’s. I can't see their hands clearly.
Maybe I'm the stranger and these are the people I was supposed to become. They've given me no erasers.
One of them sits in the garden sometimes. Just sits.
I test the doors. They all open. But I find myself backing away, grateful for walls. This could be a way station between one death and another. I've stopped asking.
Tomorrow they're bringing something. So I'm staying.
I water the plants because they're the only things here that will die if I don't. Everything else seems carefully suspended. Waiting for me to remember what I'm supposed to be recovering from, or recovering to.
