Little Window

The room seems slightly out of square. As though the contractors got their math wrong on the ground, and by the fifth floor the compounding angular inconsistencies had turned nice neat boxes into blunted parallelograms. The small mote of light that tumbles through the northeast-facing window once a morning throws a highlighter of dust across the room. It lands on you, sprawled across the cream colored, diamond stitched mattresses, one abutting the other. Our sticky skin belies the truth: that is us in the air, the dead skin, little crumbs billowing in their cone of turbulence. We are decomposing, shedding, covering the dislocated walls with physical memory. No one will miss us. But we were here.