The Joke Without a Punchline

There is a joke I keep returning to—

its ending once sharp, now blurred.

I may have told it moments ago.

Or yesterday.

Or years before this white corridor

began swallowing my hours whole.

You say you surprised me.

Did you?

Or did I practice surprise

so you would not see the fracture

opening quietly behind my eyes?

The pink flowers on the table—

petals layered like memory—

begin with P.

I circle the letter

as though it might lead me home.

Did you bring them?

Was it someone else?

Gratitude waits on my tongue

without a destination.

If I bend over my puzzle,

if I thread color through linen,

my hands can pretend

they know what my mind has misplaced.

Industry disguises confusion.

These halls are polished with kindness.

Nurses move gently.

Medicine arrives on schedule.

But no one schedules

the disappearance of a name.

Did I once carry you—

rock you through fevered nights?

Did you grow from my body,

or are we connected

by some gentler mathematics

of blood and time?

I call you darling,

sweetheart,

dear—

words wide enough to hold anyone.

You smile, mercifully.

We speak of weather.

Of songs I may never have known.

Of safe and present things.

And when you laugh,

something flickers—

a warmth without coordinates.

There is a joke I want to tell you.

I remember the joy of it.

Only the ending

has gone missing.