The Accumulation of Things in a Constant Space
In the genial afternoon sun,
I am surrounded by my favourite things. The orange cat
in the polaroid stares back at me. Overexposure paints over
his face, sparing a sketch of his ears by the negation of black,
perched atop two black orbs and white whiskers.
The city skyline sits on the back of a piece of scrap paper
watching me from across the desk every day
and I seem to forget where it came from. My own hand
held the pencil two years ago, in a room now foreign,
etching lines soft and hard.
The remaining shell of a candle all burnt up
has now become a very nice-looking ashtray
where leftover rose and apricot
mix with dead ash.
Like waking up in the middle of the night
to find that I sleep amidst roaches and mice,
it scares me to suddenly think the things
back to their birth. The twin mugs so comfortable
in their corner came from summertime,
long days drenched in sun, and in colder months
homed hot cocoa and jasmine tea. But in the dampness
of this spring they do nothing. A statue loses itself
like a word
forgets its meaning.
The accumulation of things in a constant space
grounds the person I think I am until,
as a snail outgrows its shell, this bedroom
dissolves and brings with it stuff I cannot bear to carry—
but keeping them nearby didn’t mean remembering anyway.
I wish the ghost of my things haunted me better.