the apartment rearranges itself
while I make coffee
mugs migrate
like small countries with fragile borders
I find a receipt folded
into the shape of a promise
and it smells faintly of winter
there is a moth on the lampshade
with a passport and a stubborn itinerary
my tongue keeps rehearsing
sentences that never learn to land
a thermostat argues with the sun
and both of them are wrong about comfort
I press my ear to the radiator
to hear what heat remembers
a stray sock
has become a monument
to decisions I postponed
I count the minutes between breaths
as if they were loose coins
the hallway light blinks Morse code
for impatience
I imagine a ledger
where small betrayals are tallied in pencil
the pencil keeps breaking
and I keep sharpening the same regret
a neighbor's laugh
ricochets like a coin
down a stairwell
and I follow it out of habit
my reflection
in the kettle looks like someone
who has been practicing being careful
there is a bruise
on my calendar where a day used to be
I try to staple time
back together and the stapler refuses to cooperate
a playlist plays songs
that have never been written, only remembered
I fold my hands
into the shape of a question and they refuse to be polite
the window
holds a map of rain
that never quite decides to arrive
I tuck a thought into my pocket
and it grows impatient
the city hums
under its breath
a machine learning how to forgive
I misplace the word
that would make this honest
and find instead a crooked compass
it points toward a grocery store
and a childhood memory I did not order
I practice saying small truths
until they stop sounding like rehearsals
the lamp blinks once
like an apology and then keeps working
I set down a cup
and the table remembers
the weight of other hands
there is a quiet negotiation
between my ribs and the idea of moving on
I do not promise anything grand
only that I will keep noticing
the way light learns to be patient
and that tonight
I will let the moth keep its passport
and the receipts keep their winter