I can see it in the shadows of my walls
the corners of the empty white rooms
the concave stomachs of little kids
your dried, chewed-up bottom lip
the hollows of Mum’s cheeks
the ticking of a metronome
the gaps in the bookcase
the crusty, sore noses
the bleeding nails
the white walls
skinny wrists
burnt paper
filaments
unlights
people
limbs
you
me.