Four walls and a door

Bedrooms are strange places.

They hold versions of people,

Who no longer fully exist.

 

They hold laughter,

That never truly stayed.

 

They hold tears,

That faded into nights.

 

They hold old friendships,

Old clothes,

Old stories,

That never really left. 

 

Every wall remembers something.

Late-night phone calls,

Whispered in silence.

 

Quiet music,

That didn’t wake the house,

And ceilings,

That got stared at for too long.

 

The room kept everything,

Even after people changed,

And so did I.

 

And somehow,

Between four walls,

And a door,

It still holds every version of me,

 

Drawers hold things,

I no longer rember exist.

 

Old chargers,

Old trinkets,

Old cards,

From people I no longer talk to. 

 

Each holding a part of me,

I no longer see.

 

Ceilings remember,

Every time I looked at them,

Trying to find answers,

As if they will appear,

If I looked long enough.

Bedrooms are strange places.

They witness things,

That nobody else does. 

 

Quiet crying,

Late-night overthinking,

And all the nights,

I thought morning wouldn't come. 

 

It sees old versions of myself,

That only exists,

When everyone else is asleep. 

 

It preserves things,

I no longer remember.

 

It preserves hobbies,

I swore I would never abandon.

 

It preserves people,

I thought would always stay.

 

It preserves futures,

I imagined before I knew,

How often they change.

 

Sometimes I wonder,

If the room remembers me,

More clearly,

Then I remember myself. 

 

It remembers who I was,

Before I learned,

How quickly people leave.

 

Before growing up,

Became something,

That happened,

Without ever asking.

 

One day,

I'll leave this room.

 

Take the books.

Take the trinkets.

Take the clothes.

Take the things I still call mine.

 

But some version of me,

Will always remain.

 

Caught somewhere between,

Four walls,

And a door.

 

Still crying.

Still laughing.

Still staring at ceilings,

Looking for answers.

 

The room will always remember,

Long after I have left.

 

Maybe that's why bedrooms,

Are strange places.

 

Because no matter,

How much everything changes,

They keep everything,

Even after I have gone.

 

The laughter.

The tears.

The people.

And all the futures,

I once thought possible.

 

Every version of who I was,

Will always be waiting,

Between four walls,

And a door.