What We Leave Behind

On the bedside table, a constellation of mess,

books half-read, like thoughts that I guess

will linger a moment before drifting away,

while tissues lie crumpled, remnants of gray.

An old mug sits idle, the coffee now cold,

a witness to sleepless nights, dreams left untold.

Each item a memory, a part of the grind,

of life’s quiet chaos, and what’s left behind.