Reflections

I never knew that one could be so cold in a yellow room,
With the bed neatly made, the laundry in little piles on the floor.

On a good day, with sunlight and threads of warm wind seeping through.

Maybe, it’s the photograph sitting patiently on your desk,
Smiling faces and long hair, the smell of mango juice and trampolines,
A world away.

Or the silver chain just barely hanging from your neck,
Thudding against your skin whenever you move.

Or even the voices, two streets away
Laughing and singing along to a song that you wrote on a summer evening long ago.