Pressure in Quiet Rooms

Steam curls off a chipped white cup left too long on the counter's

edge. The fridge hums like a tired lung in this house

where words won't pledge. I trace the rim with my thumb,

cold porcelain, warmer than your tone. The last call

ended with a click, not a goodbye, just silence grown. This pressure blooms

in quiet rooms. Every second drags like wet clothes on Thompson sinks. You called it

calm, I call it drowning, while your absence builds its own

foundation. The kettle's cold but still I wait for a whistle