Texture of the lost

What kind of poverty is amplified by stacks of moving boxes?

Somewhere in the depths of one there is a pile of unpaired socks, a spoon without its fork, a book whose frontispiece is missing.

In the grooves of the madeleine pan, a memory that sticks and will never come off.

Are the simplest things the best? In her mind, she subtracts one piece of furniture after another.

He has a turkey sandwich on wheat every single day. She can’t. She needs to mix things up, so her taste buds remember the yellow of pineapples, the bright bitter green of kale.

Where posters were once held to the wall with little bits of putty, now there are oil spots darker than the paint.

Once, as she stood in front of a shop window, the blur of a passing truck wrote letters in reverse on her forehead.


In response to Via Negativa: That lost gesture.

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