There’s a ceramic owl perched on the shelf,
its glaze chipped like a secret it holds.
A postcard from nowhere leans against it,
the words on the back smeared with time.
The brass compass stopped pointing years ago,
but its weight still feels like direction.
A tarnished locket whispers from the drawer,
the clasp reluctant, like closing an old wound.
A paper crane sits light as a breath,
folded by hands I used to know.
The vinyl record spins silence in circles,
a reminder that music is memory, too.
Each corner, a shrine to happenstance,
each object, a story cut loose.
Some tell of bargain bins and summer highways,
others murmur softly in forgotten tongues.
This apartment is more than four walls;
it’s a museum of lost and found.
Every selcouth relic humming, buzzing—
a chorus of what it means to belong.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Online) - Published: July 18th, 2026 11:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Online)
Comments2
Great atmosphere to this piece my friend
Thank You Norman
A wonderful piece Gray that reminds me of what I used to have. Threw it all away, kept only what I use. Memories kept only in the head where distortion dusts them from time to time.
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