shadow

I watched my body sleep.

As I lifted my shadow from the mattress, it made shapes on the walls with fingers dancing between the darkness of dreams and the light of a corner’s streetlamp. It was alive in the bliss of an unconscious play, inexhaustibly moving. It traced the walls of my 600 square-foot apartment. Feeling the layers of paint, some crumbling with the touch of untrimmed nails, the shadow slowly breathed in the stark, nostalgic aroma. There were rivets where the remnants of vintage picture frames used to be. Some spots felt thinner, untouched by years of remodeling and finishing touches – her shadow’s thumbs pressed firmer here. Once it canvassed the walls, even the cool shower tile, it spread its dull edges along the length of the living room carpet, surmising each corner as simply another home to different flakes of dust. The shadow filled the room, its once motionless shape now saturating the home's entirety. It coiled around the wooden green bookcases, weaving itself between torn corners of notebooks and flagged pages of novels; it ducked under the old white desk against the window, cherishing its loved, yet worn features; it wandered along the floor lamp’s cord, before reaching the bulb, realizing it was not yet ready to see its shape against the light. The shadow cupped itself around the old, burgundy rose petals, drooping around last month's empty wine bottle. The knobs of the cabinets welcomed its fullness, some opening ever so slightly in the wake of the shadow’s pull – something was beginning to stir in the belly of the darkened room. Light flickered through the curtains, making an orange featurette on the wall. My body quivered out of bed, as the sun bloomed, the shadow now meeting its edges in the light.

Soon, my body will remember it belongs to the shadow – it too may dance against streetlamps and wilting roses. My cheeks flushed and my hands folded into themselves as I took a seat at the kitchen table. A whisper hovered through my throat.