Untitled No. 1

That cracking noise?
The sound so slight it is
now mostly memory
of something you thought
you heard

That was my world shifting
off its axis as I realize
I am not the person I once was
to you

Like the wandering lines
of ceilings or walls
that mark what seems to be
a home's settling
later known as its demise

I exist without really being
there until I make my move and
am marked, condemned.
Uninhabitable by anything except
the possibility
of what could have been.