Some days they murmur like the fridge, others they spatter like frying oil.
I pick up the gentle ones, hold them to the light like shells. I label the loud ones with masking tape, slide them into a shoebox that meows at night.
A few I grind like spices, throw them over eggs and see if breakfast forgives me.
Some are pennies in pockets, background clink. Some are lakes in my throat, surface glare.
When I’m brave, I unsnap the box, set down a saucer, wait for the hiss to become purr.
Care looks like this: shelving and unshelving, laundry on repeat, and sometimes a streak of color down the cheeks, so even the barista knows I’m here.