EMPTY

I prepare for rest carefully. This is not something to rush.

I cleanse my face. Remove the residue of the day. Anything that followed me home without permission.

I apply oils with patience, as if tending to a body that will be seen again. As if care might persuade it to stay.

I choose what will touch my skin. Soft fabric. Nothing that resists. Nothing that argues back.

I smooth the sheets. Test the weight of the pillows. Adjust, readjust. The geometry of comfort matters.

I make room for my shoulders. For my back. For the parts of me that ache without asking why.

I lie down slowly. Practice stillness. Imagine sleep as something earned.

Only then does it occur to me that I have been rehearsing for permanence. That this bed does not need waking. That this arrangement requires no morning.

I have not prepared for sleep at all. I have been lining my final resting place with care.