It remains a mystery to me,
How the mundane arranges itself around us,
To reside in nooks and crannies we overlook for years together
Tiny scraps of paper, immaterial objects we once fancied,
Half-squeezed tubes for ailments long healed, memorabilia from people long gone
Talismans and chains, beads from broken jewelry, and books buried under dust and negligence
A Coaster you picked on a trip a decade ago, wires to electronics you no longer remember,
the train tickets from a ride last summer, still stare back at you from the pile on your desk.
And a childhood photograph that has not found space on your wall
The lamp that needed repair some fortnights before your last birthday,
And drawers that are too little to hold the things you don’t need
The notebooks and pens that have remained hopeful of your return
Miniature idols of gods that your mother refuses to throw away,
And a chair that seats no one but your discarded clothes from each weary day
How much of it do we really love? How much of it would we ever need? How much of what you own is really you? And how much of it would you get to keep?