Splintered August

or, the quiet geometry of loss

The ceiling holds its breath,
paint flaking like dry lips —
I count the cracks, pretend
each line is a lifeline.

Somewhere, a kettle wails.
The window’s a mirror now,
holding back the night’s
black tide, swallowing streetlight.

I sip cold tea, its leaf-rot
taste thick as forgetting.
You left your shadow draped
on the arm of the chair.

I keep asking the air
questions it can’t answer,
the way a knife asks
wood to split cleanly.

Your books still nestle,
spines bent like apologies.
I’ve memorized the dust,
the way it settles — slow,

deliberate — as if mourning
were a thing with patience.
The clock’s soft throat clicks,
each second stitched tight.

I sweep your name into
the corner with breadcrumbs,
each syllable a splinter
beneath my skin, raw,

persistent. Rain pricks
the glass, a sound
like fingers drumming
against my clenched ribs.

Nothing in this room
knows how to stop —
the lamp’s thin hum,
the door’s soft whisper.

Outside, the city stumbles
through its own dark.
I sit, brittle, waiting
for silence to shatter.

The tea grows roots.
I let it.