Sometimes when I’m on my bedroom floor–
child’s pose– 
I look under my bed at the empty untouched landscape–
exhale.
It doesn’t need to be filled.

A quiet open space isn’t a question. 
It doesn’t need an answer. 
I think, ‘How lovely. 
One less anxious question chasing ghosts in my head, 
creating yet another trigger pulled somewhere down the line.’ 
A hundred less resolutions that haunt.

The rest of my home has things:
chairs, tables, lamps and shelves;
things to sit on, things to put other things into, onto, next to.

But this desert under my bed will remain unquestioned. 
Because, when I see the ocean, I don’t ask, “What can I put on it, in it?” 
I don’t think, ‘That’s just too much unused space.’