The Evidence of Living

There’s a story behind every half-empty bottle,  

each nearly fossilized bar of soap.  

I slide the medicine cabinet open,  

not to pry, but to understand.  

The vitamins are alphabetized like a library—  

it tells me this person plans for their future.  

The cracked toothbrush mug whispers "things fall apart."  

A half-used candle, its wick listing to one side,  

sighs under the weight of a hundred quiet nights.  

Here lies a treasure map of mundane humanity:  

hair ties coiled like tiny question marks,  

a razor balanced too close to the edge.  

An unspoken intimacy exists  

between me, their floss,  

their lavender hand lotion.  

I have learned more from sinks  

than most Sunday dinners.  

It's not the secrets I collect,  

but the evidence of living,  

the proof of someone’s trying.  

To love someone is to know  

the colors of their towels,  

the peculiar way they arrange space.  

Each tiled floor is a biography, unwritten.  

Each shattered mirror a chapter left behind.