Second Story
by faintnaomi
· 03/11/2025
Published 03/11/2025 16:47
The tile is colder than I remember.
It’s 2:00 AM and the refrigerator hums
like a low, steady headache.
I see my face in the microwave glass,
dark and blurred,
and for a second it is my father’s jaw,
his heavy, tired mouth
waiting for the water to boil.
The boxes are still stacked high
by the basement door.
They smell like dust and the trunk of a car.
I’m just a guest in a room
where I used to know where the light switch was
without having to feel for the wall.