The kitchen that remembers

A chipped mug waits half-full,

stained counters hold ghost fingerprints.

Sunlight slants through dusty glass,

a silent hum fills the room.

The fridge buzzes like a tired heart,

mismatched spoons nestle in a jar.

Coffee stains tell stories I don’t know,

a quiet dialogue of absence.

I stand between memory and now,

held in this cluttered calm,

a place that speaks in small silences,

a kitchen that remembers me.