Opened the door for water

Opened the door for water,

a simple act.

But the air,

oh, the air.

Thick, sweet,

a decay I forgot

I’d invited in.

Back there,

behind the mustard jar,

the shriveled bell pepper,

once bright, now soft,

mottled brown,

clinging to its stem

like a lost cause.

It smells like regret,

like opportunities

left too long

in the dark.

I should throw it out.

I know I should.

But the smell itself

is a kind of companion.

Unpleasant, yes.

But present.