Worn White

The couch sits heavy on the curb, disowned,

a faded memory of soft white tones,

its fabric stained with laughter, spilled wine—

a home once, now just a shadow alone.

We sank into its arms, shared secrets and dreams,

but now the rain washes away the seams.

Once plush, now crumpled, it weathers in shame,

barely a shell of its once-bright name.

It cradled the nights when worries fell loose,

where laughter seeped deep like roots in a noose,

now reduced to a husk, it aches to recall

that warmth, that softness, a life lived in thrall.

And as I walk by, I feel a strange ache—

not just for the couch, but for moments we make.