I've become a quiet sound upon your ear
a mere drop of salt within your tear.

I've become the thin hair you lose on clothing
a piece of your dead skin falling.

I fight with your mirror
to keep your reflection longer
and go down on the pipe of your sink
to drink the water that has washed you.

I've become a plastic ticket for your parking lot,
the short second when you forget.

I've become an empty paper
left on your desk,
the clock you hit on mornings.

I put myself on the back of your shoes
so I feel you closer,
so I learn your dancing
then when you step.

I've become the door
you open to enter your room,
a little flaw on your curtain.

I am now the newspaper
you hold in your hands,
look at me,
as I'm written for you.