Insulation

It stayed in the dark for three full years,

tucked behind the towels we never use.

I wasn't looking for old ghosts or tears,

just something for the floor to catch the booze.

But there it was, a heavy, scratchy fold

of wool that smells like cedar and the cold.

A jagged little burn mark, brown and old,

reminds me of the lies we both were told.

I should have tossed it when the lease was up

instead of folding grief into a square.

I’ll use it now to dry a broken cup

and leave the fibers scattered everywhere.