Laying Where I Left It

Crumpled on tiles, a forgotten display,

the towel lies heavy with yesterday’s sighs.

I trip on its edges, once soft in the fray,

now a reminder of half-hearted goodbyes.

Each thread holds a story—was it time well spent?

Or just hours of rush between what’s lost and done?

Like moments that hang, with no clear intent,

left dangling alone under the flickering sun.

Shadows collect in the corners, they wait,

while I stand and ponder my messy retreat.

Should I fold it back neatly, let go of this weight?

Or leave it to linger, in defeat, bittersweet?

It sits like a secret, one I choose to keep,

a whisper of comfort when the silence creeps.