I’m practicing furniture.
Ambient. Serviceable. Out of the way.
The kind of song a café leaves on loop
because it hides more arguments than it starts.
I file memories by smell and exit sign.
They clock in without shifts,
and I nod like management who never fires anyone.
I want to be peaceful to you,
not fluorescent, not urgent.
Just background.
Something the eye learns to step around
without tripping.
You say change is frightening.
I watch the molt by millimeters
until the shadow forgets the body it used to fit.
It’s almost kind, the way it goes unnoticed.
There are days when grace wears a badge
and customer service smiles through a spiral.
Rooms forgive what stays quiet first.
Once, you said life needs no reason.
You keep breathing like a thesis anyway.
The air signs your name.
Mine keeps misplacing the pen.
Maybe that’s why the couch looks borrowed
when I sit too carefully,
why the mirror tilts to correct me,
why frames keep testing which face belongs.
Who are you, then?
the noise, or the hand that lowers it?
Curiosity explains itself.
Staying never does.
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