Accumulation

The four o'clock sun is a cruel light,

cutting through the blinds to show me

exactly how much I’ve let go.

I ran a finger across the spine of a book

I haven't opened since the move,

revealing a streak of bright, clean blue

under a millimeter of gray skin.

I blew on the shelf and the room filled up

with the ghosts of dead skin and old carpet,

swirling in the beam like a slow, heavy fog

that doesn't know where to land.