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.