Fixed Window

I start earlier now
and stop before it stretches.
I don’t keep the window open
once the light changes.

There’s a point in the afternoon
where I don’t add anything new,
  and whatever hasn’t begun by then
  waits until another day.
  I leave at the same time,
even when there’s more to do.
I don’t carry the remainder with me,
and I don’t revisit it later.

If it doesn’t fit inside those hours,
it doesn’t get reshaped.
It stays incomplete
without becoming urgent.

It’s a fixed window.
That’s all.

I don’t answer after a certain point,
not because I’m unavailable,
but because the window has closed
and I don’t reopen it.

I don’t explain the cutoff,
and I don’t soften it.
I let the silence hold
whatever didn’t make it through.

There are things I could extend,
but I don’t.
There are days I could stretch,
but I don’t.

Nothing improves by running late,
and nothing stabilises
by staying open longer than it should.

It’s a fixed window.
Still holds.

I close it.