Disparate thoughts have a way
of coalescing into crumbs of speech

that litter the floor.
I can’t find a way out without

a map and both hands.
Long after we leave,

the air remembers,
our breaths collecting

in corners to sweep up later.
The fan pushes mine

out of the way and it stays there.
I’m afraid to move, disturb

these piles like river mud
before I can make sense of them.