The walls have an old bluish tinge.
The paint on the white walls haven't settled yet.
The paint is too new.
All the walls are bare except for the graduation cap that rests above the headboard
The wooden floors have a shiny hue
But not all spots are polished brightly
In the middle of the floor the wood is no longer shiny, but has bubbled up slightly, forming an oblique shape.
Maybe the nail polish remover that dried after you failed to wipe it up, was too acidic for the plain wood floors
The vintage vanity rests against the blue--I mean white walls
The knobs have fallen off, so the drawers need to be opened from inside and shoved closed
Dust occupies empty space, laying unevenly on the uncluttered spots
Random gems and pieces of me lay haphazardly
Strewn about so that everything blends together
Only one thing stands out
It is: a polaroid camera
my most prized possession
my trophy
my last snippet of you
the last gift you gave to me
The polaroid is a reminder of what I had and what was taken from me:
you gasp for air that is nowhere to be found:
it is a thousand bricks piling on your chest
a tingling down your spine, that pivots, and settles in your belly
eventually spilling into your legs
that sends a prickling sensation to your toes
you gasp for air again, that is yet to be found
Isn't it ironic that my most prized possession is a memory preserver, yet my own memory of you slowly fades away?
YOU ARE READING
thoughts at 4 am
Poetrythose random thoughts that keep you up at night as you toss and turn, putting up your fight
