It seems so strange, these walls bled of color.
So strange, this room, transformed -
A beautiful quilt of geometric flowers done entirely by hand,
Pulled neatly over this new mattress
On the antique frame of carved cedar.
The dresser, with its carved handles
(The bottom drawer still only has one, the other one I broke oh, years and years ago.)
The still rocking chair, a new addition with its violet and green victorian upholstery.
The shelves are filled with bits and pieces of another person.
Someone elses dream shards scattered across miles of empty space.
I'm only staying for the night.
The bed still feels the same.
Somehow fresher, cleaner.
The light from the ground-level window still occupies the same space relative to my prone body. The creaking of the stairs through the wall to my right is familiar. The draft from the hallway comes from the same direction.
But it seems so strange
These walls so empty now, of me.
Where are my chinese tapestries?
My samurai swords? My collection of
unique candlesticks, my stacks of beat up paperback novels?
Where's my mini-gong and the white stuffed cat that used to sit on the nightstand?
And where is the nightstand, and what odd table is this in its place? This iron lamp with the hand painted glass shade.
This is not mine.
The air is musty and damp, and I feel
Like I'm in a museum that has had all the exhibits replaced.
Even the smell is different.
And I run my fingers over a thousand
Tiny push-pin holes on the wall
And the bits of tape still stuck, now black
Closing my eyes, trying to remember
All the pictures that have been
Attatched to this wall
Over the years.
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Submission Name: Feelings upon entering a room ...
