The Projector Room
The past plays back
Like a reel softly buzzing in a dusty projector
Frames jitter
Grain dances
Scratches run vertical like timelines
Nobody bothered to clean
On quiet unassuming days
Friends flicker in and out of the light
Laughing in that warm sepia tone
Not knowing they were becoming memories
Gate weave wobble
The joy stays centered
Family moments spool through
With light burn marks at the edges
Holidays melting into birthdays
Birthdays melting into twilight talks
All of it patched together
With tape only nostalgia understands
Workdays show up as overexposed flashes
Bright
Loud
Then gone
A few frames missing
A few frames scratched
The story still runs smooth enough
To feel like you were there
Somewhere in the reel
The dust settles on the parts you forgot
You didn’t mean to forget
These parts just fade like film left in sunlight
Still visible
Still yours
Just softer now
The projector keeps spinning
Casting old light on new walls
Every flicker reminds you
Even flawed reels can carry the whole story
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