Behind the Varnish

The landlord leaned his weight against the oak,

and the wood groaned like a winter floor.

We dragged it three inches, enough to break the seal

of the dust that had settled since the first year I lived here.

There it was, wedged against the baseboard—

a birthday card trapped in a cheap plastic sleeve.

It was meant for a roommate who hasn't called in four winters,

smothered now under a thick, felt-like layer of lint.

I reached down into the dark, narrow gap

and touched the plastic, slick and surprisingly cold.

The 'Happy Birthday' was mostly obscured by the gray,

a secret I kept from myself without even trying.

We pushed the dresser back into its place,

leaving the card exactly where it fell.

Some things aren't meant to be recovered,

just buried a little deeper in the wall.