Underneath the coffee table, the throw rug collects dust and memories.
Twenty five years she’s had that mat and it hasn’t moved an inch
and there are creases where the coffee table sinks.  

Underneath the couch is the toy car that you lost at a distant age,
and on the shelf sits all your favorite books                
of which she read to you every page.
And by the couch sit her glasses, faux gold, frames engraved,
cloaked in dust atop the nightstand that her husband built before his grave.
And above the fireplace is a photo of you when you were young,
the anchor in her darkest storms,
you are the reason she never came undone.
And beneath that are your parents,
their names carved neatly into the box,
but you don’t talk about them anymore,
your heart barely remembers the loss.
But her heart never forgot.

There are creases where the coffee table sinks holding onto faded caffeine stains
and the pungent death of cigarettes she smoked on the night that you left
still lingers all the same.

This is where you never listened.
This is where she used to sit.

This house is a mausoleum of her life, love and effort.
She did her best to keep you safe, so how could you forget it?
All she wanted was to provide and in the end you left her neglected.
And there are creases where the coffee table sinks, right where she left it.