The chipped teacups

the bed that’s been slept in

the curtain pushed aside

to let light make its way, settle in

and illuminate the dancing dust.

The laundry hamper, half-full

the milk in the fridge.

The textbooks on the table

the speaker and the iPod

with their sweet, sweet sound.

The glasses cast aside

the swimsuit stashed away

for six months to come.

The stuffed animals

growing sad on the shelf.

The well-worn paperbacks

holding each other for support.

The flannel pajamas

and the photographs that smile.

The camera, wise lens pointed to the world

the old, empty birdhouse.

The doors, never fully closed

but never fully open either.