The Kingdom of Forgotten Things

In the bottom of a drawer, where rusted nails and screws gather dust, never used to mend the house we swore we’d build together, my dreams lie waiting. In the back, with the dried-up ketchup packets we thought would stretch the hard days, but never opened— you’ll find remnants of hope wrapped in crinkled edges. Tossed in an overfilled closet, crushed beneath the weight of your unpacked clothes— the pieces I kept after you left— they’re hidden there too. And in the basement, where clutter grows like ivy, where portraits we barely recall prop up the cobwebs— those fragile threads of time— don’t let them fall. I think I left part of me down there as well. Scattered like puzzle pieces from a hurried Christmas morning, left unfinished as we rushed to places we never wanted to go. Or maybe they’re like the tire tracks carved into the mud from journeys that never mattered, etched into the earth and fading into memory. This is the Kingdom of Forgotten Things.