Dust-mite – Maya N.

July 24, 2026

On all eights
I search for

The callouses on
his feet.
If ballroom dancing,
nail clippings
and a hundred
strands of hair
will do.

Instead, I find
where his bed meets the wall

a bitterness in the parquet,
a blue-ink poem on
flamingo pink tissue paper,
“to my little plum” or “prune”

What I let pass me by is
plain matter,
a sneeze into the room.