What the Bedside Table Forgets

A chipped coaster stained with water rings—

forgotten maps of restless nights.

Books stacked like secrets,

each dog-eared page a quiet confession.

Half-empty glass, lipmarked and dusty,

waiting for a sip never taken.

A cracked pen, dead battery,

and a photograph turned face down.

The table holds these things,

a graveyard for intentions,

a monument to the ordinary

that slips away when the light fades.