The Bag That Made No Sense

I found it

crinkled yellow, thin plastic

between my fingers,

sounds sharp as old bones —

the crackle of a memory

half-buried in dust.

Inside, brittle petals

pressed flat,

the colors drained like tired skin.

She never said why she kept it,

just that it was "important,"

as if the weight of a bag

could hold more than dried flowers.

I wonder if she heard them too,

those long-gone voices,

whispering in the dark corners

where the sun never quite reached,

or if she just needed to carry

something forgotten,

something that meant nothing at all.