The speaker begins with a plain claim: "I write my life." Writing here seems to be both a record of living and a way of living. But the second line brings in doubt. What if the letters, the written traces, fade before the speaker does? The title, "Contingency," fits that uncertainty. Nothing is guaranteed, including whether the words will last.
The speaker's answer is quiet and a little surprising. If the writing dies first, there is still "the lax music / in my bed." That phrase suggests something loose, relaxed, perhaps tired: the sounds and rhythms of a body at rest, or of private, unguarded life. Judging by the wording, the speaker may be turning from the page to the body as a second source of meaning.
The mood is calm, wry, and slightly vulnerable. There is no panic about death or silence, just a shrug and a backup plan. The poem's brevity makes that acceptance feel even more understated.