Right now,
it smells like old, crumbling stories
from the bookshelves out in the hall
there's a Barbie cup on the desk where I sit
cradling pens that for years have gone unnoticed and unused
I'm surrounded by photos
of young people now old and old people now dead,
and across from me is that faulty router
that brought me up here in the first place

Sometimes there is nothing to write beyond the ordinary
no beauty to behold, no story to be told
and all that is left to capture is
life as it is
before it fades a  w   a    y