Left

A muffin tin.
A package of jell-o instant banana pudding.
A newspaper. Everyday, a newspaper.

You think it's mine despite the fact that I don't get the newspaper. Maybe it's all mine, left with the express purpose of me finding it. Maybe I'm missing the connection I have with these things sitting at the bottom of my stairs, and with the person leaving them. I never even see anyone on those stairs, except when I come to let you in or when we leave together. I never hear the hallway door close, except when I close it behind me. I used to hear the back door slam each morning, but they fixed it so that it drifts quietly shut, leaving me in peace.

Now I hear murmuring in the alley outside my bedroom window. I hear the zombies in the dumpster. I see these things on my staircase and the things left outside to be taken or trashed. I never take them but am somehow sad when they are gone. Maybe they are mine. Maybe I'm creating a scenario in my sleep, sleepwalking, sleepleaving things to keep myself entertained and interested. So I'll have something to talk, write and think about. To distract myself from the routine. To make me figure out when I got lost. Or maybe so I don't have to think about what's really on my mind.