There’s a quiet in the clutter,
a stillness in the scattered remnants
of days that blur together.
A sock without a partner,
an empty gum container,
dead batteries waiting for a final farewell.
all of them stranded in the corners of the everyday,
reminders of the passing time.

I used to resent them, these remnants of ownership,
little anchors to a world that never stops moving.
I threw most of them away,
but the chapstick survived,
a little tube of yellow,
warped by the heat of too many days in the car.
Too insignificant to keep,
too familiar to let go.

I kept it, though I couldn’t tell you why.
Maybe it was the brand that held me back,
a whisper from my teenage years,
or maybe it was the date I had that evening,
lips too cracked for first impressions.

So I slipped it into my pocket,
a last-minute companion,
as I waited outside the café,
too nervous to go in.
Therefore I lingered under the streetlights,
My fingers tracing the ridges of the turning wheel,
a small comfort in the stillness of the night.

The night unfolded,
and the chapstick stayed with me,
tucked away in the warmth of her presence.
It watched from the coatrack,
as she traced henna on my hand,
patterns that felt like promises,
as if she was writing a future on my skin.

Days passed, and it was there again,
in the corner by her door,
as we danced to the rhythm of our own laughter,
awkward but at ease,
under the moon’s soft gaze.
The chapstick was forgotten,
but it didn’t mind,
content to be a silent part of something new.

When the night ended,
and she pulled me in,
she felt it—a little bump in my pocket.
a detail so tiny,
yet in that touch, it became more.
No longer just a thing,
it was a witness,
to the sweetness of connection,
to the beauty of the ordinary,
it became a thread in the fabric of us,
woven into the moments that mattered.

As I walked away,
her scent still lingering on my skin,
the chapstick felt warmer,
knowing it had played a part,
a tiny but meaningful part,
in the moments that make life wonderful.