Items in My Room

I once promised myself that I would never make a stab at poetry, but sometimes you just have to use the means of communication that makes the most sense to you. If it happens to resemble poetry—then so be it.

Items in My Room

When I met you, my room was empty.
As you spoke and acted,
as you were quiet and asleep,
as you prepared food and entertained me,
as you deprived and forgot me,
as you taught me, and as you learned from me,
you decorated my room.

You put paintings on the wall,
or left a box with unassembled furniture.
Some decoration was expensive, and some was cheap.
A few items were curiosities that had value only to me.
Other items were essentials to anyone.
Sometimes you left garbage I had to clean up.

All of the items were how I knew you.
Some were your nagging habits,
and some were your great example.
They were all that I liked and disliked about you.

Then one day you shattered a beautiful vase,
one of the most precious items in my room
with an important history and a soul.
It was an accident, and you meant no harm.
You replaced it with another item,
but since then when you entered my room,
I would notice that the vase was missing
and that I had been mistaken about you.