The house keeps
what the house has always kept:
One drawer of keys that fit
no living lock,
Three clocks
all set wrong,
but still right
two times a day.
The photographs
that accept the people inside
will not move.
The coffee rings worn
on the fringes of the calendar,
Three Tuesdays past the date
I should have called.
A cup with your teeth,
and a saucer with the ashes
of your dashed cigarettes.
Somewhere a man is teaching his son to fish.
I know
which floorboards speak
and which stay silent.
These are the things I mean
to throw away.
These are the things
I carry.
About the Creator
E.K. Daniels
Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen
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Outstanding
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Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
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Comments (2)
"These are the things I mean to throw away. These are the things I carry." Gosh these lines hit me so hard!
Wow!!! That was fricken next level! I read it twice and had the same reaction, especially how it ended. Stunning work, E.K.! And the photo is a perfectly poignant choice.