Student Blogs

The boxes swallow half our home,

labeled rooms that don't exist yet.

I tuck my old life into cardboard, 

tape the corners so nothing falls.

The walls repeat each empty echo, 

strange to hear a house this bare.

I walk through the ghosts of furniture,

leave everything behind.

I take down the paintings displayed above,

peel back the dried clear tape.

I stare at the chipped beige paint behind them,

the vivid colors gone.

I pack up the heavy winter coats,

breathing in the scent of old wool and rain.

Every fold hides a day I can't return to,

now neatly stacked inside a dark suitcase. 

The window frames a faded view,

moonlight tracing where I stand.

The closet that once held clothes, 

stripped down to hangers on a rack.

Tomorrow this will just be someone's address, 

a simple number on a form.

Tonight it still remembers something;

maybe that is why I’m sad.