a view from a window i can’t really see

i consider this often
while walking past the house at night
i peer into my own window, the curtains open, the lights on
try to surmise what a stranger might think
of the space that’s been my home for a year

a teenage girl’s for certain
not messy, per se – but cluttered, perhaps
what do the colours suggest?
the papers covering the walls?
the maps, the dolls, the bookshelf, the desk, the drawers?
I try to paint a picture in my mind
of a girl i never knew but for her room…

i can’t do it today, and i never could before
i know the story behind every book on the shelf
the name of every haunted-looking doll
the reason for the pill box, the teddy bear, the papers, the map
the memories that hold that license plate on the wall
how many times a day that coffee cup is used
who bought it, and why

i know how hard it is to keep tidy
how much money is in that pile and how many hours, in the cold and heat, it took to earn
i can feel his kisses as we lay on the bed
can smell the lavender on the bottle on the bedside table
can hear the raindrops hitting the roof
as i sat with the window open countless nights and stared into the dark

no, it’s too hard, like looking into the mirror with your own skewed perceptions and trying to see what they do



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