#commit - Hello Poetry

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

0

Jan 24

Jan 24, 2026 at 11:17 AM UTC

mauricio

my tongue

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