Maybe Today

Morning presses down on me, heavy and unkind.  I blink at the ceiling, waiting for a reason—  any reason—to move.  None comes, but habit wins.  I drag myself to the sink,  turn the faucet, watch the water spill  into the porcelain basin,  swirling, vanishing.  I envy it.  Cold hands cup my face,  fingertips pressing into skin  just to feel something,  just to prove I’m still here.  Drops cling to my chin, my lashes,  like the day itself, refusing to let go.  Outside, life moves too fast.  People rush, talk, laugh—  as if existence doesn’t weigh them down.  As if breathing isn’t work.  As if waking up doesn’t hurt.  Maybe today, I think,  as I grip the edge of the sink,  as I stare at the tired reflection  of someone who doesn’t want to be here.  But my hands let go.  My feet turn away.  And I step back into the hollow shape of my life,  carrying the weight of another day  I didn’t ask for.  Maybe today.  But probably tomorrow.