The Scuff Marks

Pulled from the closet, dark and deep,

a smell of mothballs, faint and old.

A promise that the journeys keep,

a story waiting to unfold.

This battered case, it’s seen some miles,

its corners worn, the fabric torn.

It holds the ghosts of different aisles,

from cities I have since outgrown.

The scuff marks tell of hurried trips,

of being dragged and dropped and tossed.

A quiet map upon its hips,

for every journey gained and lost.

It sits there now, a silent heap,

with promises it cannot keep.