Inventory of What Weighs Nothing

In a drawer I keep the word almost, which neither shuts nor opens, which leaves the door at shoulder height.

Beside it, the minute in which I decided to say nothing and it was the closest thing to saying everything.

I also keep the habit, that tame animal that licks my hand when I no longer recognise it.

And at the back, wrapped in a handkerchief, certainty: the lightest of them all, the one that breaks if I look at it straight on.

I close the drawer. None of this weighs anything. That is why the drawer fits in no house.