The house keeps its own weather now.
Light lies flat on the table. The cups remember heat better than I do.
I misfiled the word for warmth.
Once, laughter snagged in my chest like a small bird.
Now it flies past the window and does not look in.
I wave anyway. Habit is polite.
People say failure teaches.
I learned instead how to arrange my face like flowers in a rented vase.
Upright, color-correct, water changed on schedule.
It looked like living.
Follow on Instagram