I’ve lost count of the tallies.
White walls turned black.
souvenirs of expired purpose
that suck the dust from the room
and bear it with shame on their shoulders.
and I’m not sure what I’m seeing.
Cleaned and bare,
but I don’t see what was once in there
and I don’t know if I am here
or just spinning in a quicksand bedroom.
Never leaving; never really wanting to.
Drawing lines down
where numbers rob themselves of meaning.
( ❤ Mitch)