the stairs remember more than we do
two pairs of shoes left by the door, never quite lined up
water running cold in the sink because neither of us remembered to warm it
while somewhere upstairs a mind keeps doing its silent, stubborn work, enough to make it through another morning
it was winter when it started, though neither of us could have told you the exact day
something moved into whatever room happened to be closest
it never bothered knocking
it’s been sitting at our table for months now, and neither of us has had the nerve to ask it what it wants
up there, the small routines carry on like nothing is happening underneath them
silver rings set down on the dresser
hairpins dropped one by one into a porcelain dish, the way you’d count something you were afraid to lose track of
a body moving through the motions of getting dressed
while something old keeps being taken apart, bit by bit, beneath the ribs
down below, the ordinary keeps making its ordinary demands
the kettle works itself into a hum like it doesn’t know what day this is
and then the body says the thing neither of us had the nerve to say out loud
a stain spreading fast and plain across cotton, blooming before either of us can brace for it
some truths get written in ink
this one wrote itself in blood, on a tuesday, before either of us had finished our coffee
we pass each other in the hallway between rooms
carrying bags, carrying apologies neither of us says out loud
the heat of an old argument still sitting on the counter next to the keys, cooling slower than either of us expected
two people trying to cross the same small space without bruising each other again before breakfast
this is how a house actually holds two people
not through anything anyone would put in a card
but through the draft that creeps under the door every winter
the shared air of a kitchen before either of us has said a word
the small negotiation of whose turn it is to go first down the stairs
the way old habits and new ones end up sharing a cutting board, neither one asking the other’s permission first
some mornings one of us cries at the sink for no reason we can name
and the other one keeps drying the same dish a little longer than it needs
that’s not nothing
that’s most of what love actually looks like once the vows have already been said and all that’s left is the daily, deliberate doing of them
whatever moved in still keeps a key to this house
we haven’t changed the locks
some days it sits with us at breakfast in near silence, and some days it doesn’t come downstairs at all
either way, we leave a place at the table, out of habit, or patience, we’re not sure which
by spring
the hairpin dish holds one less than it used to
someone finally cleared a space for it on the shelf instead of the counter
this house will have logged a hundred small repairs neither of us thought to mention out loud
one ordinary morning at a time
long before either of us thought to notice we were becoming two different people, still choosing each other
and some mornings now, the stairs still remember
but they remember differently
they remember two people who stayed
who kept choosing, one cold morning after another, to walk back down them together
—lyra moon (we healed the only way it actually happens, one dish at a time)
september 1, 2026