Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The previous tenant left a colander shaped like the moon on its third night, and a single chopstick standing in the drawer like the last surviving witness to a verdict.

I learn the cupboards by the sound they make opening — the high one yawns, the low one coughs. At dusk, the kettle remembers a hand that wasn't mine, clicks off a beat too soon.

There is a small brown stain near the stove the shape of a country I've never visited. I have stopped trying to scrub it. Some maps are drawn by accident.

Tonight I cook for no one, and the salt falls through my fingers like a loaned alphabet. The window holds a square of blue the exact size of forgetting. I eat standing up. The room keeps its own quiet inventory of me.