Moon at Half Past Noon

The soul, measurable, fits the graduated cylinder.
Pours thick like cold-pressed chlorophyll.
Meniscus kisses calibration line.
First communion: NAD+ and dread.
This capsule tastes of dentist office, 2013—
a Tuesday you can’t place.

My apartment breathes better than I do.
HEPA sings its electric vespers.
Last week, I evicted a fern for fungal thoughtcrime.
Ganesh texts: Remember laughter?
I calculate optimal oxygen absorption.
Spirit = (Total Air) – (World).
The formula’s perfect. The answer is zero.

This is my body: pea protein, regret, chalk.
This is my blood: tincture from Bucharest,
shipped in unmarked boxes smelling of elsewhere.
I have forsaken crust, fermentation,
the dangerous nexus of a shared bread.
My petri-dish cells throw a perpetual rave.
My chest-cage houses a quiet taxidermy.
It doesn’t beat. It audits.

I declined the sunset. (Wavelengths suboptimal.)
I declined the cake. (Glycation event.)
I declined your hand on my skin—
microdermabrasion needed silence.
I am archivist of a future no one will visit.
I went missing on a Thursday.
The sun was at its most efficient angle.
My last thought: This is working.

O, bathroom shrine. O, lab of betterment.
Let the worm on resveratrol be my prophet.
I kneel to the scrolling quantified truth.
The math-mirror shows two faces:
one aging backward, one forward.
The crack between them is my father’s smile—
the one I’m outliving. I highlight, delete.

My wristband knows my sin before I do.
It vibrates Psalms in Morse code.
Last night, it commanded: FEEL JOY.
I stood perfectly still for 7.3 minutes.
My heart rate variability painted a masterpiece.
The chart was magnificent.
I felt nothing. Nothing.
A perfect void. A clean, white room.

I am a parasite in the house of my own body.
Renting. Lease nearly up.
I am saving my authentic laugh
for my hundredth birthday party.
The guest list is pristine.
No one is on it.
The present tense is a glitch
I am debugging out of existence.

A book that fears its last page?
No. A book is its last page.
A song is the silence after the final note.
The door makes the house.
The wall makes the room.
The crack lets the light in.

Without the end, you are not a story.
You are a receipt, growing longer,
itemizing everything you were too careful
to ever lift from the shelf,
to ever risk dropping,
to ever hear shatter
into a beautiful, irreparable,
living
sound.

Amen.
Now time for supplements.
The night is long.
The data, pristine and endless,
sings itself to sleep.
I am just the empty room
it echoes in.