What Remains

My bedside table, a museum of misfits,

a chipped mug teeming with thoughts,

yesterday’s receipts piled like

a memory quilt I never finished—

what remains of the day, scattered echoes.

Each item a piece of a story,

old pens poised for a letter never sent,

and the book left open, pages crumpled

as if waiting for a hand to turn them,

remnants of a night spent

in dreams that slipped through fingers,

a universe held in fragile silence.