the warmth fades from the crumb halfway down
i adjust not a decision more like water finding the crack
the groove is worn smooth by every one of us who came this way none of us meant to make a path the path happened because we kept going the same way and the going wore the stone
there is a place where the counter meets the wall where the grout crumbled years ago and the air smells different cooler, mineral, the faintest damp
i slow here every time not to rest i don’t rest but something about the cool and the change in texture underfoot makes the legs pause half a second before the next step finds its purchase
the crumb is bread the bread is four days old it has a skin now where the air dried it and a softness underneath where the moisture held
i know this the way my legs know the groove not knowledge just the accumulation of having carried a thousand things that felt like this
above me the blur moves and the air shakes once and something falls not near me but the vibration comes through the surface up through all six legs at once like a word in a language that only means something happened
i go down into the dark where we keep things and the crumb fits where the others fit and i turn around because there is more there is always more
and the groove is there and my legs know it and the cool place by the grout will be there when i pass
and that is not joy it is not satisfaction it is the thing before those things the thing that doesn’t have a name because naming it would require stepping back far enough to see it and i am in it
i am only ever in it