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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A half-empty coffee mug sits on the windowsill~ half-drunk, gone cold, the ghost of a morning that no one remembers. The edge of a blanket, cleaned too many times, frayed and still smelling faintly of someone else’s skin. A lone sock in the dryer, coiled up and waiting for a match that never comes. These are the relics of a life half-lived, the quiet pain of things undone. But the cup could be washed, the blanket mended, the single sock discarded. But we leave them where they are. Why? Perhaps the forgetting is a type of mercy?
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