Scene 1:
The walls covered poetry,
the boy wakes up
to an empty room.
No furniture, no roommates.
Just him,
in a single room
with a twin-sized bed,
that he obnoxiously never makes
after he wakes up.
There are bloodshot eyes
staring back at him through the mirror,
when he brushes his teeth,
and attempts to prepare
for the day.
Scene 2:
She comes back home
from a business trip in Morocco,
to an empty room.
Everything he owned
was gone, packed up.
All that remained was a box,
filled with her belongings
and their bed;
the bed they shared
for five years,
still unmade.
Just as messy as his hair
in the morning.
The poetry they wrote
was painted over,
as if to obliterate the memories.
But clearly in haste,
some of the pen still showing
through the paint.
Scene 3:
“So here you’ll see,
the room is quite refurbished…”
The realtor sells the room
to a couple of college kids,
but their poetry
haunts the walls,
no matter how much paint
you try to slap on,
and cover it up with furniture.
The boy’s poetry is
not only imprinted on the room;
it’s imprinted on the souls
of those who have ever felt lost.
Lost souls find clarity
in writing poetry.
That’s all he was,
a lost soul.
It just happened to be
too late
before that poor girl
realized it.
