A closet of words.

Rickety-wooden-termite-ridden-dusty-closet. Your silken black hair against pure white sheets. Morning whispers from the child in you. There are very few things here that I will take back with me.

That dreamcatcher by the door should stay. How do you name a colour that has travelled through time, dirt and reason? Do you code it? Dirt has a colour, so does time and reason. Spectrums with dog tags. Tie the rainbow down now. My dreamcatcher still has your wishes in it, leashed and hopeful.

A closet of words can lead to the birth of a whole new social system. Some words must have clustered up into sentences. Small short strong ones and lengthy haughty boring ones. Then there are the phrases that are high up the food-chain because they hide a lot more than they reveal. Nature of mankind I think, has seeped into the language on his tongue. Language and its artificial intelligence; that closet is just bursting at the seams. You stored your words in there too, didn't you?

The sun spills across clean window sills, liquid wood helping them find their way to me. You liked it all clean before you left, sweeping dust into spaces between wood and concrete. Think I will sit here a while. I can still smell the dust. This cold white couch is strangely inviting and the closet still mumbles in its sleep.

I am just a visitor in our home anyway.