The Inventory of Unspoken Things
She leaves a teacup on the coaster, still warm, though she has been gone for hours. The apartment holds its breath, rearranging the silence into heavy, dusty shapes. In the hallway, her coat hangs like a skin she decided not to wear again. I count the items: a paperback with a bent spine, a single earring on the dresser, the scent of lavender holding onto the curtains. I don’t move anything, fearing that breaking the arrangement will make the absence permanent.
dust settles gently
on the untouched coaster’s rim
clock ticks alone now
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