What we walk on without noticing

The super is coming tomorrow.

Until then, I keep walking

on the buckled part,

the way you keep touching

something that hurts,

just to know it's still there,

just to know the pain

is real.

The water came through the ceiling

last Tuesday.

I was at work.

My apartment flooded

without me,

the way things fail

without asking permission,

the way damage

doesn't need

an audience.

The linoleum pattern

used to be visible,

used to be something—

I never looked at it,

never thought about it,

it was just the floor,

just the thing I walked on,

just the place

where crumbs landed

and dirt accumulated

and life happened

at ground level.

Now there's a stain

the size of a dinner plate,

and the pattern

is obscured,

warped,

gone.

The floor is no longer flat

in that one corner,

buckles slightly,

like it's trying to remember

what it was

before the water came.

I step on it.

It's still solid.

It still holds me.

It's just

marked now,

distinctly imperfect,

no longer something

I can ignore

while living my life

on top of it.

The super will pull it up.

Will replace it.

It will be new again.

But until then,

I notice it.

Every step.

I notice

what damage

looks like

when it happens

to the things

we stand on.