This room is filling full of memories, pink And drippy, swirling blues and aquamarine shades Of wool blankets, cashmere sweaters, Love songs and warm mattresses. Hints of faint Smells From one corner to the next. His and her Scents a tip of the tongue sort of speech Pattern "I sort of wish" "It never happened" But that's not what's intended at all. This room, this house, this aparment building; All to the brim with memories. This car. This Compact disc. This road trip. This place. This action of convenience and sincerity. This. All to the tip top rim with memories. This Life. Quietly. Waiting and watching. Down the hall, a laugh. A giggle. How much one has forgotten to recall. How much There was that one time. There was once This or that knick knack, a bric-a-brac menagerie. A little hand gesture, a little glance. A particularly yellow piece of nylon, twisted Umbrella There in the center, the room so crowded Out of itself with memories, it barely fits. It squeezes by, wheezes a breath, Says goodbye, and departs for wider shores. It has left. That room was filled with memories, And now it is somewhere along a beach resort. Empty. No cabinets. No wallpaper. Just windows, and sunlight, and one single Solitary Smile.
This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.
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