Buried Things

Dust stirred as I reached beneath,

a quiet cloud,

falling leaves trapped in shadow.

The box, taped shut years ago,

scuffed edges cracked.

Inside, forgotten weight—

papers curled and yellowed,

a photograph folded wrong,

a note never sent,

all tucked away,

buried beneath the bed’s quiet ribs.

I held the past like a loose stone,

dirty and sharp.

What we hide grows thick

in silence,

until it spills

in dust and sudden light.