A bent label stuck to the floor,
dates and signs from lives before.
It lists a world I nearly knew,
the print has faded but not through.
This aisle feels like I've been here,
dust recalls a half-formed year.
I blink at signs,
they stay the same,
as if they once called out my name.
Photos slipped behind the rack,
half a smile,
a faded track.
Something in the way they stood,
told me more than paper could.
This aisle feels like I've been here,
dust recalls a half-formed year.
I blink at signs,
they stay the same,
as if they once called out my name.
I'm not lost, but not quite placed,
in someone else's shadowed space.
I leave the coins upon
the tray, no need to buy,
no need to stay.
The lights hum low,
the air is thin,
I step outside and breathe it in.
This aisle feels like I've been here,
dust recalls a half-formed year.
I blink at signs,
they stay the same,
as if they once called out my name.
And maybe once they did.