Everyday Objects
I sit beside your door and watch you leave. I greet you when you return, yet I never move from my place. Rain makes me speak, and muddy shoes make me tell the truth. What am I?
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I wait beside a window but never look outside. I am pulled down to begin and pushed up to vanish. I gather dust while keeping eyes from meeting. What am I?
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I steal your face each morning, then give it back in pieces. The wetter you make me, the less I can help. What am I?
I show you a face, but it is never mine. I grow dull when touched, yet a soft cloth brings my truth back. What everyday object am I?
I make you smaller every time you use me, yet I am bought to help you grow. What am I?
I sit beside your work and watch every mistake. I erase nothing, yet I carry the evidence away. What am I?
I travel from room to room without feet, carry no luggage, and leave nothing behind. You open me to let me in, then close me to keep me out. What am I?
I travel with your keys but open no lock. I hold your name, yet I cannot speak. I circle your finger only when I am not on your keys. What am I?
I stand beside your plate but never eat. I wear a coat yet have no arms. I may hold a storm, though I never make it rain. What am I?
I help you open doors, but the more I help, the smaller I become. What am I?
I stand beside you all day, copying every move you make. Yet I disappear the moment you need me in the dark. What am I?
I swallow your words, keep them safe, and never speak them back. I grow thinner as I work harder. What am I?
I sit beside you at every meal, yet I never eat. I wear a jacket but have no arms. When I am full, I am most useful. What am I?
I live between pages but never read. I hold your place, yet I have no hands. Pull me out, and I may tell you where you stopped. What am I?
I arrive only after someone has finished, yet I am never invited. I may wear a paper hat, carry a bone, or hide beneath a peel. What am I?
I wait in a row, each holding the same secret. Twist one of us, and the secret comes out in a spiral. What am I?
I hug your papers without tape or glue. I bend my two arms back to let go. What am I?
I carry your weight all day, yet I never take a step. I rest beneath you, but when I am worn through, you notice me everywhere. What am I?
I sit on a desk and beat without hands. I grow quieter as I work, yet when I stop, people rush to find me. What am I?
I have a mouth but never eat. I welcome keys, yet I am not a door. Turn what enters me, and a room becomes private. What am I?
I live in a pot but never need a drink. I hold a sharp secret and make loose things stay together. What am I?
