The Crooked Shelf That Outlasted Me

A battered corner catches light

that slides through the window, slow and sure.

I lean in—

feel the rough grain push back steady,

solid against the restless weight of years.

Books stacked uneven, empty bottles pressed

into the warped wood’s stubborn spine.

It creaks, sure, but it holds.

Holding stories and silence alike,

fractured edges and the dust of quiet nights.

I made it crooked,

a flaw in the lines that don’t matter now.

It bears the weight I forgot I carried,

keeps its balance despite the cracks,

steady, imperfect—alive beneath my touch.

The light shifts,

a slow turn of time caught in chipped paint,

and the shelf holds me,

more than I ever held it.