To dwell; to abide.
I have lived in this apartment for over 11 years, the longest I have lived in one place as an adult. I leave evidence of my routines here. The spot where I push to open the bedroom door bears blunt finger-tip stains from the thousands of times I have pushed to open that door. Similar concentrations of dirt exist on the kitchen floor, marking the area where I stand to wash dishes. I clean the stains in the kitchen but never the marks on the bedroom door. I like to see them there, even as I can not explain way. I have imagined that similar marks exist on the bodies of people I know. Not literal marks. Not bruises or blemishes but the type of marks only seen by me. Similar marks on me are only seen by those who left them. Marks like those which record the openings of my bedroom door are on the forehead of a lover whose past experiences rushed forward when I kissed her there. From a touch to her arm arose unexpected memories and fears, and there on her arm the mark remains. She can not see, but I can.
