"Where Small Things Go"

I think my pockets contain black holes.

I slip in vitamins, chapstick, a stray coin and somewhere between one step and the next they cross an event horizon and vanish.

No flash.

No warning.

Just poof.

I can't explain this phenomenon.

No telescope has charted it.

No astronomer has confirmed the orbit of my missing things.

But evidence accumulates daily.

Small objects drift inward, pulled by quiet gravity stitched into the lining of my pants.

Perhaps my pockets are singularities, tiny collapsed stars folded neatly into cotton.

Or maybe somewhere in the universe there is a small and growing galaxy made entirely of chapstick and vitamins.