Among the Dust and Light

The bulb swings slightly, casting nervous circles

on stacks of suitcases thick with years.

A loose floorboard groans beneath my weight,

breathing out secrets of forgotten winters.

The smell of mothballs curls into the air,

folded tightly with old photographs and holiday lights

that never made it down from their wooden crates.

Shadows pool in corners like waiting things,

quietly gathering dust on cobwebbed memories.

I reach for a box—edges sharp with rust and hope,

a time capsule cracked open with trembling hands.

Light breaks, slicing the silence,

the attic's breath held, spilling stories

only the forgotten remember.