My bedside table is overflowing

with bobby pins, postcards, paper planes,

books with loose pages fluttering

in the day breeze with their words hanging

off the edge like a cryptic message

for the universe to unravel. Night after night,

I return more pieces of my life

to that space. My mother claims

that it is a battleground,

a metaphor for the chaos

that my life is, but I can see

how they have all learnt to coexist,

making room for a half drained teacup

or a cheap necklace, a chocolate

wrapper flapping, scooting over

closer to the ticking wrist watch

in a synchronized rhythm. In times of distress,

this is where I turn, searching for

comfort that may reach back

to me in the form of a poem

or shiny nails. One afternoon, I returned

to the shelf squeaky clean, not a

stray crumb or dust

in sight. That night,

as I groped around for the familiarity

of a book or my earphones,

my fingers only closed on

empty space.


3 thoughts on “Spaces

  1. Spaces belong to me when it is overloaded with my trash,
    Trash, which makes my DNA.
    DNA, to me stands for Dear Nothings Answered…
    Answers to questions,
    I know not,
    I don’t wish to make.
    Make my clutter the nervous system of my existence..
    Existing, Coexistance.. DNA.. DO NOT ASK!
    Is where the fragrance of freedom and familiarity make love,
    Love , the two arms of the parenthesis.. in between I sleep in sweet sweet matrimony of the night!

    Liked by 1 person

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