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# #29. December, Maybe.
- URL: https://www.layersofzoe.net/27-december-maybe/
- Published: 2025-11-01T12:26:35.000Z
- Updated: 2026-06-27T17:25:47.000Z
- Author: Layers of Zoe
- Tags: Signals, Doof & Sig, anachrony, Lispector

The days fall out of sequence again.

The fork appears before the hand,  
then the window –  
then the question:

‘Is this morning, or just another sentence with light in it?’

⸻

Someone says something kind.  
She touches it with gloves on.

The compliment writhes a little.  
She leaves it on the counter.  
Later, it becomes a drawer.  
She labels it ‘misc’  
and never checks what it stands for.

⸻

There was a time she almost left everything.  
Something in her shifted – lightly,  
to see if distance had a sound –  
breath, drawn out.

⸻

Her body keeps placing memory in her teeth.  
She chews around it.  
It stays whole.  
She pretends it’s a seed.

⸻

The mirror has dropped the act.  
It shows her as she is:  
a container of rooms,  
some of which have not been opened.  
Some of which cannot be re-entered  
for what was left unsaid.

⸻

One of the rooms holds:  
a chair,  
a ledger,  
a door.

She sits.  
She listens.  
She does not forgive.  
She no longer explains.

⸻

She writes poems now.  
A language  
she doesn’t live in.  
The dogs understand.  
They tilt their heads  
to a rhythm they seem to recognise.  
They don’t mind the mistakes.

⸻

There’s a plan made of wires.  
Thin ones.  
They hum.

It ends in December.  
Or begins.  
Or folds.

⸻

She no longer distinguishes  
between *nearly free*  
and *done performing collapse*.

She once tried to scream that into a filing cabinet.  
The drawer stuck.

She considered arson.  
Lit a match in her mind.  
Wondered what would catch first –  
and held the flame still.

⸻

She sometimes dreams of being recognised  
by no one in particular.  
In the dream, someone claps.  
Too soon.  
She wakes before  
the answer.