Yesterday Lingers

Yesterday Lingers

Yesterday lingers

in the dust on my shelves,

in the crack of the pavement

where I tripped once, long ago,

still wearing the bruise.

It sharpens its grin

in reflections I don’t ask for,

polishes regret like silver

no one wants to inherit.

It whispers in traffic jams,

crawls through the hum of fluorescent lights,

waits for me in the hour before sleep,

the one I dread most.

I have shut doors,

I have burned letters,

I have walked roads so far from home

my own name felt foreign.

But yesterday,

it camps outside my window,

spitting jokes at my plans,

tapping rhythms on my doubts.

It rolls dice with my fears,

plays cards with my pride,

always knowing the hand I fold.

I tell it, “I’m done,”

I tell it, “Move on,”

but it lights a match,

warms its hands,

and makes itself comfortable again.

I breathe past it,

step over it,

but it knows the way I walk.

And maybe —

maybe I don’t want to forget,

not all of it,

not yet.