Someone is rifling through the junk drawer...
I know something is out of place,
I can sense it...
No way of knowing who it is,
But I feel their presence,
Little mouse footprints
Dropping to the beat
Of a metronome...
I powder the floor
So I can see their traces,
The drag marks of their tails...
Could be something new,
Could be dated material...
Nothing is missing,
But things have been moved around...
I won't dust for prints,
I can imagine the searching hands...
Phantom touching,
A sensation running up the spine...
Delicate greed
Thumbing through the pages...
The smell of vintage books
Yellowed by the passage of time...
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