Kristen's Junk Drawer

There’s a map of her almosts in there,  

paper menus folded like neglected treasure,  

offering tastes of nights she meant to savor.  

A lone rubber band clings to its purpose,  

though what that purpose is remains unclear.  

A screwdriver balances between duty and exile.  

It remembers tightening chairs, fixing hinges,  

but sits now beside a tangle of chargers—  

their cords coiled in quiet rebellion,  

plugged into no past, no future.  

Loose change conspires in forgotten corners,  

coins whispering stories of unclaimed parking meters,  

vending machines left hungry for candy bars.  

A paperclip, stretched into a question mark,  

waits for the next thing worth holding together.  

Staples—scattered like metal freckles—nestle  

between expired coupons and barely-used batteries.  

This is where yesterday lingers unnoticed—  

a chaos too intimate to truly discard,  

a museum to the small, the never-finished.  

Kristen shuts its drawer with quiet ceremony,  

the clutter left to dream in the dark.