When Stories Became Chores

The paperback lay under receipts,

caught between last week’s groceries.

Spine cracked, pages yellowed like old leaves—

the words curl away as the train rumbles past.

I try to read, but the story slides,

like rain on fogged glass, blurring the lines.

Once, I devoured nights,

now, the pages grow silent,

and I fold them back into the bag,

the weight of stories shifting to chores.

The worn spine soft beneath my thumb—

a quiet reminder of something lost,

somewhere between subway stops

and the urgent press of days.