Drawer Inventory

My hand sweeps across the dust

searching for the frames I left by the lamp.

Instead, I find the glass.

The sound of it tipping is louder than it should be

in a house this empty at 3 AM.

I can hear the water sinking into the paper,

bloating the edges of that thrift-store novel

I’ve been reading for six months.

Everything is damp now—the receipts,

the loose change, the heavy, wet smell

of a life kept within arm's reach.