Margins

In the space between two sentences, light pools like spilled milk. A moth discovers the margin of a page, maps the geography of white.

Your absence arrives with the morning—not heavy, but particular, the way dust settles on a shelf, the way rain finds the same cracks. I am learning the grammar of small losses: the word suspended before it breaks, the breath held at the top of stairs, the color that fades when no one is watching.

And yet: the tree outside holds seventeen shades of green. The kettle hums its one true note. Your shadow, still on the wall.