[39] The Stuff of Life, Moriah Hampton

Today I found a water stain beneath
the planter on the window sill.
I traced its circular shape that grew
fainter as it widened.
For the last 21 months,
we have enclosed
ourselves in this apartment.
It has been our gym, office, bar, coffee shop,
preserving us together,
against the world outside.
Meanwhile, I have watched stuff appear.
Crumbs between the bedroom sheets.
Scuff marks on the wall in the hall.
Soap residue underneath the dish in our bathroom.
Making it impossible to deny
the passing of time.
And at the end of each day,
I have less desire to wipe
the stuff away. What would it mean to start
fresh during these times? So I replace
the pot on the window sill, knowing
the stain is there along with the piles
of dust in the living room
and the spider webs hanging near
the sliding glass door. I want to live
longer with this stuff accumulating.
I want to live longer with you,
reminded of the passing of time.

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