The footfalls of the day are fading.
The traces are leaving, if there exists,
are the taints on the floor like ripples
on windblown sand and thumb motes
on my skin of shoppers who never purchase.

Scents linger and humidity settles.
Everything is heavier now
even the floor reacts
on the last shadow’s gravity
like needle pricks against its skin.

I watch the departure
and recall the hours.
Hand warmth imprinted like passages
captured in the vacuum pack of my body,
my stuffed fur.

This day settles slow
like the flickers of the light
as the last open door closes. Silence
fits itself into my shelf, the only buyer
who settles for the least price I am offered.