Unsticking

I leaned against the wall, just for a bit,

then felt a crackle, a soft, dry give.

My finger traced the line where it was split,

a floral pattern that refused to live.

The paper curled, a stiff, forgotten leaf,

revealing plaster, yellowed and old.

Beneath the surface, a hidden grief,

a story that had never quite been told.

It kept on lifting, slow and undeterred,

a perfect, brittle edge against the paint.

Just coming undone, not a spoken word,

just a steady, quiet, self-made faint.