Formica Ghosts

The sample lies cold,

a sliver of beige with flecks of brown,

edges chipped like forgotten promises.

Sticky jam crusts cling to its surface,

a ghost of dinners past, silent arguments.

I trace the smoothness with a finger—

a surface that’s been touched too many times,

marked by careless hands and tired meals,

the kind that fold into the nights

before the quiet settles in.

This little square holds all the weight

of things no one ever cleaned up,

a history pressed thin beneath the plastic,

a silent witness to slow unraveling.