Cartography of an Empty Kitchen

The kettle keeps a small parliament of steam, debating with the window. Outside, a magpie auctions its one bright coin to no one. I have been awake long enough to forget which silence belongs to me.

On the counter, a lemon practices its bruising, slow, deliberate, like a letter written in a language I almost knew. The fridge hums the same low vowel my mother used to hum, threading needles.

I draw a map on the back of the receipt: here, the chair where you read. Here, the floorboard that always confessed. Here, the hour I started measuring the apartment in mugs.

The light comes in like a guest unsure where to put its coat. I offer it the table. I offer it the spoon. Outside, the magpie is still selling something I cannot afford to name.