The Room

No, I did not take any pictures of the room,

because I did not need to.

It is etched fully in the corners of my mind,

every corner, every curve, every cut in the floor.

I can make a model out of origami, if I knew origami.

I would draw it piece by piece if my hands could draw.

But my limit extends to my fingers, so dry from the weather

so dry from the washing

so dry from cleaning the salt I cry.

Grey and white, the colours of sadness

with lighting so bad you were destined to ruin your sight

if it wasn’t already bad.

If only you weren’t so bad at letting hope stay.

 

 

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