Dust fills the room.
One day. 
One week. 
One month. 
One year.
Time, slowly passing. 
Not empty, but left lonely. 
Lifeless. 
The long-rested, untouched books sit on shelves collecting time. 
Their pages hoping for the day they’ll be opened once more and see the light of the sun. 
To tell their stories and teach their inspiration. 
But they are left closed for months and years, beyond end. 
The fan, once used to relieve the room from hot nights, now sits unmoving and cold.
Staring at the unvacuumed floor. 
Its string dangling from the center light.
Filth coating the top of the blades. 
Faded stuffed animals lined up on the bed frame.
Once played with talking magical imagination. 
Pictures of vacations and fun adventures hold times of joy and smiles on the wall.
Yet the grime makes the pictures feel far away, lost in time. 
The old bed longing for the comfort of a hug. 
Its sheets left wrinkled and forgotten.
It misses the head full of dreams that used to rest on the pillows.
The peeling black dresser with the broken drawer holds written letters of the past.
Yellow and white envelopes resting on each other, defeated.
The light of a setting sun filters in through the windows.
Outside, the world moves on. 
But the room remembers. 

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