Dear Bedroom

You are a scattered rainbow thrown into orbit.

Sunlight coasts in on the sails of dust

and gently kisses the sides of

geometric caverns of wood,

where books are scattered, displayed with triumph and glittering gold.

Words float off the page

onto circles of paper

and waterspouts loop around the models of ships

left unbuilt.

They all spin

around

and around,

caught in a whirlpool of lyrics and dirt,

a litter of photos and carnival prizes,

postcards from old friends,

ghosts.

The paint from every soul

that splattered onto mine

is kept in a capsule

or tucked away in a mason jar

You are my universe--

a galaxy of ghosts left untouched for years

but never unseen.

Tsunamis of precariously folded paper stars

that collide and float through outer space.

Every night, I cocoon myself

in a fabric of constellations,

microscopic stitches of white

blue

and purple.

I’m not a ghost.

I can’t stretch myself through time,

so I created you--

a world where moments bend, shift,

wobble and curve.

Through the clutter of a life,

the mirages of nostalgia dance

under the tangle of fairy lights.