Poetry

Forgotten Things

Just over the hill is an old house
Nothing special about her, really
Aside from her mere existence
Yet, her appearance elicits a gasp
She is plain, but regal
When the glint of the sun hits just right
Her many windows render her splendiferous
At other times, they are like eyes
Watching you, following you
Seeing through you and learning your secrets
But, unbeknownst to the naked eye
Her foundation is crumbling

I step inside the house
I’m not interested in the winding staircase
The large, ornate rooms
The places where laughter once rang
I want to know her secrets, too
I find the attic, pull down the door
The ladder creaks like old bones
I fear they may break as I climb
The sight inside is not beautiful
Nor is it heartbreaking
It is a shrine to indifference
There are things
Little things and big things
Little knickknacks and little nothings
Memories suffocated by dust and left behind
Making friends with cobwebs and spiders

I feel at home here in the quiet
Making my way through the boxes
Trying not to disturb the years layered here
Lest I give life to lifelessness
Hope of rememberance
There!
In the corner!
An empty space that’s just my size
She knew I was coming
I inhabit my designated space
My place among the forgotten things
This old house
She will love us
Long after we crack and break from disuse
She will hold us
Long after the sun goes down

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2 thoughts on “Forgotten Things”

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