I keep meaning to fix that drawer

I keep meaning to fix that drawer,

its creak a cry for help, a silent war,

last night, I reached for a pen,

and chaos spilled out, again and again.

Crumpled receipts, old pens like regrets,

each crumple a memory that never forgets,

the weight of neglect in that fragile space,

a reminder of time lost without a trace.

Fingers sift through forgotten debris,

what I meant to sort, what I wanted to see,

and in that mess, I find a piece of me,

a task unfinished, waiting to be free.