A Scene Inside the Broken Elevator Within My Chest

It’s a Friday night when he asks me if I’m unhappy.

I pause mid-commercial break, knowing I must extract the right words.

I quickly mumble I’m not unhappy,

but also not happy.

He sinks like a crumpled duvet.

Hoping to catch him before he falls deeper into blame games,

I attempt to fashion words into comforting cloth

to explain it’s crucial to recognize:

I said I wasn’t unhappy first.

I live in the in- between like a subway car or a half moon or a

broken elevator paused mid-floor.

Who isn’t living at the yellow light at a traffic stop these days?

No one is quite ready to flee, but no one wants to stay.

The disease of my current living situation isn’t terminal,

but I’m beginning to think there is no cure.

Playing a mental charade of leaving

and coming back for fifteen minutes

for the last seven months.

Crazy to think it started off as a ten-second game.

I say I keep coming back,

and maybe I’m not happy,

but I said I’m in this for the long run,

even if I’m a little out of breath at the moment.