Prayer for the Fake Middle of the Month.
Pray…
not to gods,
not to ghosts,
but to the middle
of this faking month,
this sagging spine of April
where the days begin to wobble
under their own weight.
Pray for the midpoint,
the lukewarm center,
the hinge where nothing happens
and everything threatens to.
Because by now
the jokes have grown stiff,
calcified,
gathering dust
on top of the shelves
where we once stored
our lighter selves.
They sit there,
old punchlines
with no punch left,
smiling weakly
through a thin film of neglect.
April’s middle
is a tired comedian
performing to an empty room,
telling the same joke
for the 14th time
and pretending
it still lands.
The air is thick
with half‑laughter,
half‑sighs,
the kind of sound
that doesn’t know
what emotion it belongs to.
So we pray…
not for salvation,
not for clarity,
but for movement,
for a shift,
for a breeze strong enough
to blow the dust
off the forgotten humor
of our days.
We pray for the month
to remember itself,
to shake its shoulders,
to stop faking
and start becoming
whatever it was meant to be
before time got tired.
April 15½ ends
with a soft cough of light,
a shrug of the sky,
and the faint hope
that tomorrow
might dare
to be less dusty.
