Settling

The air is thick with skin and cotton dust.

I’ve pulled the boxes from the sliding door.

The hinges have a dry and orange rust

that leaves a fine, red grit upon the floor.

I run my thumb across the painted ridge

where someone marked how tall I used to be.

The hallway is a narrow, wooden bridge

between the person there and current me.

I see the place the bed was meant to stay,

a darker patch of rug where no one stepped.

The rest of it has faded into gray,

unlike the quiet secrets that I kept.