I was looking for a lightbulb in the drawer

I was looking for a lightbulb in the drawer

under the menus and the tangled bits of twine.

I found a square of glossy paper on the floor

that used to be yours, that used to be mine.

A piece of sourdough with a single, sharp bite

sits on a chipped plate by a glass of lukewarm tea.

The sun on the table is too sharp and too bright

for a morning that’s been sanded out of me.

It’s the yellowing edge that makes it feel real,

the way the film is starting to buckle and curl.

I didn't want to remember how a kitchen could feel

back when I was a different kind of person in the world.