Mildew’s slow claim

The closet air smelled sour—

not the usual damp but something older,

sticky, crawling under my gym shoes.

Fuzzy green-black halos clung to laces,

a slow invasion, patient and sure,

like breath forgotten in the corners.

The wood beneath showed its own dark blotches,

a bruise blooming where moisture sat too long.

I squinted close at the stubborn fuzz,

clinging to the tired fibers, creeping,

knowing I let it wait too late,

like the quiet weight of things left undone.

It isn’t loud, mildew—just a slow claim,

a stubborn skin on worn-out surfaces,

reminding me even silence can grow sharp,

and rot can dress itself in quiet green.