Left There

Left it on the tile this morning.

The shirt that broke the seal,

the one too many,

sent the whole thing

onto white like it was waiting

to let go.

I stood in the doorway

watching colors that were neat

in darkness

become a fight.

Denim meeting cotton meeting

something I forgot I owned.

The alarm was going.

My coffee getting cold.

Emails. The day.

But I kept looking at how

it held the memory

of being folded,

how each piece still curved

the way my hands had bent it,

how nothing stays

the shape you force it into.

I left it there.

All day I thought about it,

spreading across that tile,

slowly forgetting

how to be contained.

My neighbor probably smelled it

by now.

Or maybe that's just me,

knowing it's there,

imagining the smell

of something that gave up

being careful.

One more thing, I thought,

and the whole structure

said no.

Not today.

Not anymore.