Unmended

Each night the house smooths its skin. 

Cracked plaster seals, paint blushes fresh, 

floorboards remember how not to groan. 

 

In the kitchen, tiles reattach themselves, 

grout knitting seamless as if no pan 

was ever thrown, no water ever spilled. 

 

The window we shattered last winter

glimmers whole by dawn,

its glass cold as a withheld word.

 

Upstairs, the mirror forgets

the arguments it has reflected.

But your eyes do not.

 

My joints ache in a language

the house does not speak.

Your hands tremble, unplastered, unpainted.

 

By morning, the house is immaculate,

a museum of absence.

We move through it

like old ghosts,

unmended.