Check under the trash bag
you swore to take out yesterday.
Press your ear to the fridge;
its hum might give away the secret.
If all else fails,
try your grandmother’s couch pillow.
You know, the one
that smells like camphor and guilt.
It isn’t about the object itself—
but the act of searching,
like waiting for a train
that will never arrive,
but still has you checking the tracks.
I once found a piece of myself
beneath a streetlight,
its glow too dim to be comforting.
I waited there, pocketing the silence,
watching regret take the elevator,
hoping it fell just fast enough
to break itself at the bottom.