April 2, 2015 § Leave a comment

It smells of nothing the shedding of skin, falls invisibly without sensation to drift between floor boards and catch in threads, appearing only through the push of the broom or the shake of a curtain, a rug, my shirt. It glimmers briefly in slashes of light through an unshut door or a half-closed blind, day by day accumulating silently, like forgetting, until the light changes or a finger brushes over a not-so-shiny surface and the old skin sticks to the new and must be wiped away.


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