Parts of Us

The crease in the bedspread, the fold in our pillows, the bends in the doormat’s bristles, the off-angle shoe by the stairs. The lip stain around a wine glass and toothbrush borrowed, still damp. Your tissue, scrunched, unfolds gently in the bin like a seed amongst pebbles. It’s your cough in the air, your hair in the shower. You left an indentation, a mould and mark of you with handprints that cover the walls. You’re in that paint and part of this plaster. A door creaks and you’re the hinge. An envelope drops through your mouth. Your skin is in the dust floating, awakened by a closing curtain.