I live in an apartment with no walls,
just whispers nailed to scaffolding.
Every morning, I sweep the silence
off my doormat like dust.
I once married a moth.
We divorced over a lightbulb.
She said I was too bright.
I said she kept flying in circles.
My job?
I bottle other people’s regrets
and sell them as perfume.
Top notes: apology.
Base: memory.
Always unisex.
My name?
Call me whatever.
It’ll echo anyway.
I dated a girl who only spoke in spoilers.
She ruined my life in three sentences.
I still don’t know if she meant to.
Sometimes I walk backwards
to undo conversations.
I leave apologies under park benches
like bread for pigeons.
Children ask me
why I wear mirrors on my shoes.
I say,
“So I never step on someone else’s past.”
They think I’m joking.
I hope I am.
At night, I press my ear
to the cracks in old buildings,
listening for arguments
that haven’t happened yet
.
I write them down.
I sell them to poets.
.
