sitting in a room
with clothes on the floor
a baked potato half-eaten on
the nightstand
three half-empty glasses of water
two half-full
a lamp without a lightbulb
four curtains, one ripped
so many pictures on the wall
of people who I’ve loved
now I wonder if they feel
the same way
a string of lights that only half-work
some mascara stains on a white dress, hanging
waiting to be saved
a borrowed book mixed in with all the rest
too many blankets and pillows
for just one bed
a thousand and one thoughts
to fill a cluttered room
each one floating around each object
and I don’t understand.
are these objects what make this room
mine
or is it the me that inhabits it?
is it money or paperwork
or the amount of time
I am here?
I’ve come to believe that the things
that I’ve strewn
represent
the person I want to be and
the person I am
both who try to inhabit this room
and often bump into to one another
they create quite a mess
but we’ll co-habitat
until the old makes room
for the new