The Room filled with unwritten poems

A Room Full of Unwritten Poems A room— Quite not real though, Not built of woods or bricks, Structured with the unfinished and unwritten verses, Smeared by weathering paint, More like an echo left without the speaker. Swaying curtains, now getting silenced. Door hinges rusted, creaking— But in my mind, It’s just similar to those small giggles and laughs Left behind by the envied person. Envy because of what? Because I had someone so special to love, To take care of, to protect, And to lean on their shoulders when the voices in my head Become so loud, piercing— Just like someone had slitted my neck open. The world was still the same, A sanctuary— Constructed to pluck the wishborne star— A constellation brighter than ever, Now faded and crippled, As if it’s lost the last bits of hope And the freckles of life. Nuking my neighbourhood of flowers. A flower that was him— Tender-bloomed, soft, Delicate and luminous, Crushed and sheltered by fear, not failure. The terror of what ifs plagued the mind, Rooted deep inside, Crushed the warmth he once held. I reached out my hand in the room for the butterflies, But only felt my fingers tear through cobwebs and dust. The room I dreamt of making our own floating island Is now just a table of dying ink, Corroding paper, And a wilting feather— A better place for spiders, rats, and bats. Now, what am I supposed to do With my thorny thoughts, With the memories we once held graciously, With the keychain you gifted me— Still hooked on my backpack, Swaying in the breeze— Yet for me to see it again feels like a disease. How should I write the happy ending of our story, When the pages are crumpled, lying on the floor— Those unwritten verses and notes of our songs Pinning the ceiling down? Metaphors of our love Are filling the walls with your melancholic scent. I rest now— In hope, in quiet pleasure, Of someday writing those songs and poems about us, Of giving voice to what’s left unsaid, And finding peace In the echoes of our past.