What Remains

Books topple over each other,

a mountain of half-finished thoughts,

a forgotten cup of tea, its

crusty rim a testament to nights

spent wrestling with my own mind.

Receipts flutter like whispers

of things I never bought,

hopes scrawled on crumpled paper,

all piled up, waiting for some

shining clarity to pierce the mess,

yet morning comes and it’s all still here.