The Literary Mirror

Habitat: everywhere you did not expect to find it.
Call: a silence, mostly, that sounds, from a distance,
almost like a sentence being considered
and then, at the last second, not sent.

Migration pattern: none recorded.
It simply stays, unremarkable, in plain sight,
until one ordinary Tuesday
you notice you have stopped noticing it at all —

which is not the same as it being gone.
Common things rarely leave. They just stop
being the first thing you see
when you walk, out of habit, into the old room.