Footprints

There were thunder gray taps of soot lining the bathtub like a winter coat, and there were whispery white taps of dust dotting the third floor like snowflakes. It's clear the filthiest versions of my kitten morsels, formerly colored burnt orange and ivory but now a deafening charcoal shade, have invades the pristinely renovated house and laid siege to the cleanliness as much brute/cute force as they can muster. We thought it was coming from a leaky dye on an old futon cover, we thought in was coming from the inside of the floor where inconveniences go to die, and then we thought it was a crevice behind the basement furnace as dirty as J3's jokes. Now, we aren't sure.

There's so much left to learn about this cavernous space, hollow in the absence of bookshelves and our electric piano. There are so many tiny nooks and secrets to wedge between. If we are lucky, before long every hardwood masterpiece, mirrored closet and painted mistake with be snuggled under a coat of fresh footprints, and we'll get sooty and dusty and deafening just to feel the sure exhilaration of using the brand new showerhead.