You feel the saddest
at the far edge of the room,
where dim, weakening light fails to reach—
the corner where forgotten toys
from early childhood
live best in shadows.
In the cabinet, you find not skeletons,
but sleeves thick with dust,
worn only once to grieve.
Beneath them, a single shoelace—
from a past that never happened,
belonging to no one but you.
As you stand,
the floorboards sigh beneath your feet,
forgetting you too.
A picture of your mother,
stained and half-burned by the sun,
leans crooked on the wall.
She wears the same black scarf
from the last Christmas
you still remember.
You wear it too,
in hopes of returning some alacrity
that once bled this home.
