moonlight seeps into my room
through the gap between my curtains
and casts a pale, eerie glow that makes
tiny specks of dust break dance at midnight.
the luminiscence accentuates the
cracks on the walls, and segregates the
rightful territories of spiders and lizards
like boundaries on the world map.
the dolls on my bed have kawaii eyes
at daytime; but the moment the sun sets,
they remind me of annabelle, who now
lies locked away in a box at a museum.
the pencil shavings on my study table
are all artifacts in their own rights;
talk to them at night, and they’ll tell you about my trait for preserving fragmented things.
the dustbin beside the table lies empty
all day long, I find the ‘trash’ in my room
too precious to be thrown away; maybe
I could give Nonseum a run for their money?
the bookshelves, and my woollen blanket
have more history than spoons used by
medieval kings, but I hide this fact so
I can archive them in my museum (read: room)
by now, the moonlight illuminates
each room in my house, but my inclination
for languidness beats my desire to look for heirlooms hidden in the crevices of those walls.
So I leave those antiques buried
in their rightful spots so that I could
dig them out and chronicle their tales
on my quest on another moon-lit midnight.
aishvarya 