It dropped from too high,
creating tiny twisters of neglect.
Thud filled the corners,
where sound memories were yet to live.
Nothing had a home.
The draft still belonged to another
He dropped it from too high,
creating tiny pangs of regret.
“We have to talk…” filled the corners of his mind,
where her memories used to live.
It sat there.
Looking as if it had always been.
Neon lights through filthy, spider-webbed windows.
A whorish red glow illuminated it now.
He picked it back up,
creating tiny waves of panic.
“Misc.” now filled the back corner of his closet,
where more boxes would eventually go.
One thing had a home.