She comes from the shadows of familiar places. The friendly face in the neighboring cubicle. The chai-ordering coffee shop regular. Her aura creeps behind the happy and unsuspecting–waiting; seeping through the rifts in their union. She sits on bar stools in dark lounges under rings of cigarette smoke. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to, but her eyes say “count me in.”
Pieces of her are strewn about your home.
Strands of her hair, tangled in his shirt buttons in the hamper.
Her scent, trapped in the drain as he washes away her dirty whispers.
Her peppermint saliva still on his tongue as he drools onto his pillow.
She is a stray stitch, woven into the lives of others. Hard to see, but impossible not to feel.