Keys on the table,
crumbs on a plate.
You laugh at nothing,
we’re already late.
Radio humming,
curtains half drawn.
Shoes by the doorway,
the day goes on.
Little things,
soft and near.
Ordinary,
but so clear.
Little things,
all we know.
Quiet sparks
that never show.
Notes on the fridge door,
ink almost dry.
You fold the paper,
I don’t ask why.
Little things,
soft and near.
Ordinary,
but so clear.
Little things,
all we know.
Quiet sparks
that never show
