The Drawer Lining, Or, The Muted Bottom

My fingers searched, for what, I'm not

so sure. A pen. A thought. A spot

of quiet. But there instead,

the drawer's grey felt, a muffled bed

for coins and clips and ancient dust.

A fabric you could almost trust

to hold a secret, dull and deep,

the promises it couldn't keep.

It felt so rough, not soft at all,

a scratchy, muted, silent wall.

It drank the light, it held the sound,

absorbed the years that spun around

the objects laid upon its face.

Each dent, each faint, sad, ghostly trace

of where something once used to be.

Like me. Or what was left of me.

A muted bottom, worn and thin,

just holding everything within.