Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The landlord's spoons are heavier than mine. They sit in the drawer like small, dull moons, refusing to belong to anyone.

I boil water in a kettle older than my marriage, watch steam unspool against the window where someone else's child once drew a house with their fingertip, then grew up, and left.

The knife block holds its breath. A single orange waits on the counter, impossibly bright, as if lit from within by the memory of some better morning I have not yet had.

Somewhere, a faucet drips in a rhythm I am beginning to love. The refrigerator hums its one long vowel. I stand here, a tenant of the hour, learning the language of other people's light.