trace memory

in a secret shattering, if/when the porcelain falls and breaks and everyone who saw it happen quietly agrees that in fact, my dear, it did not.... well, did it?

nevermind the scuffs on unrepaired linoleum skin that i trace and believe by hand, yet doubt by mind now. i find lingering questions and already time has collapsed on itself.

the clock ticks softly.

she will mark time.

as she has for years.

there shall be no sleep on this riverbed. ghosts favor the sleepless and listless, and with the shield of rest gone? soon comes a haunting. all streams lead home... back to shiny, exposed keloids on linoleum skin.

there is talk of renovation.

a tearing down.

a covering up.

there are faces and sounds and smells and new porcelain being passed around the table. I’m drifting into a mild preoccupation with the plush carpet upon which my feet rest. no more linoleum... i find this leaves me nostalgic. homesick for the repetitive pattern, the stylized, thorned flower stamp that stretched itself throughout the house.

in its place now is this soft, invitation to warmth. a diversion in the story i know by heart… my feet surrender and soon after i am sprawled. my back against this faux fur that soon replaces memory. or stirs a new one. nothing is ever truly swept under.

everything scatter.

Ⓛ 𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚒

𝟿.𝟷𝟹.𝟸𝟷