Transient Geometry

The light finds dust motes in the shape of a stranger's afternoon— furniture pressed into carpet, a grammar of absence.

The wall holds the outline where a picture lived for years, paler than the rest, a ghost waiting for itself to return.

In the shower, a drop of soap catches the angle of who was here, refracts into a smaller world where everything is still beginning.

We are blueprints dissolving, signatures written in displaced air, each room a memory that forgets us the moment we close the door.