Museum of the Forsaken Objects

After you left,

the house began curating itself.

***

The spoon curled into the sink like a sleeping dog.

The mirror turned its face to the wall.

One chair vanished.

The other multiplied.

***

At night, I opened the fridge

and found a field of wheat—

no milk,

just wind

and something rustling

that knew your name.

***

The faucet ran honey for weeks.

Then ash.

Then nothing.

***

I folded the laundry.

Each shirt sprouted a small red door.

I knocked.

None opened.

The sleeves lifted slightly

in what I mistook for forgiveness.

***

Your toothbrush began writing letters in the drawer.

I burned the first.

Read the second.

The third left me.

***

I woke one morning

with a library pressed to my chest—

volumes of things we never said

sorted by the hour

we almost said them.

***

Somewhere inside the mattress,

your last breath

was repeating itself.

I tried to catch it

in a glass jar.

I labeled it the sound of regret.

***

Outside, the mailbox filled with snow.

No one had sent it.

Still, it spelled your name

in the shape of a wound

that could only be read by birds.

***

I wrote to the city.

Asked them to rename my street

Where I Lost You.

They declined

but added it to the maps anyway.

***

Now everyone who comes here

is looking for something

they are too afraid to name.