She builds her world with trinkets
From a shelf of shiny novelties—
Snow globes encase snowflakes
That will never melt, nor touch her skin.
A keychain holds keys
To locks long forgotten,
While fridge magnets cheer
On an empty white canvas.
Wind chimes hang silent
Until a sigh stirs their spines—
The sound not of wind,
But of her breath seeking music.
Mugs with slogans
Brew no wisdom in her tea,
But she sips the warmth,
Pretending it's clarity.
Postcards from places
She'll never visit,
Stacked on the table
Like a deck of dreams.
Assembling life from shelves,
Pieces that don't converse—
Their chatter drowned
By the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.
In the glow of facsimile,
She seeks the authentic
But the scent of lavender soap
Cannot cleanse the air of longing.
She arranges, rearanges;
Finds no equation for sense—
Only the soft whisper of dust
Settling on souvenir spoons.
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