there’s clothes scattered along the staircase
and hallways like
tiny paint splatters on a canvas.
it’s the start of something beautiful,
a brand new work of art,
but to you
all these marks represent is
imperfection.
white walls, beige sofa, wooden floors and matching carpet,
like a set out of a movie.
never lived in,
but we can pretend, we can
extend our disbelief.

all those colorful, imperfect things
are taken care of,
taken away
by the garbage truck
every monday, and i always thought
“how could you?!”
every monday,
like the innocent little kid
that you tossed out
every monday.
and i think it still, now
less with
disbelief
and more with
disgust.
have you no attachment? have you
no love?
it’s befitting of a place so cold, never lived in
but we can
only extend our disbelief
so far.