Body, like a grain of sand is modest in its size.
For a brief period of time it gets picked up and carried into the distance.
A more fixed corner.
A location with a different purpose.
No parting gifts or release offered.
Only post it notes with the numbers 10 and 24 scored in red.
The washing machine croons in the background.
Like an exhausted carousel in June.
You make yourself at home in my thoughts.
Like a sterling shroud that has been removed to another place.
Picked up with the wind and scratching a cornea.
The eye steeps, and becomes thinner.
You blink, and squint and try to remove the flake.
The cutting is distracting.
You remind yourself that it’s better not to rub.
That someday the bit will be forgotten.