They sit in dresser drawers, wallet pockets, boxes and journals. The memories of the forgotten. They don’t take up much space anymore, or maybe the space was cleared for them long before.
A film of dust and haze has gathered and scents of lemon won’t polish them clean. They stay hard to find and tucked away, hidden from wandering eyes to see.
They fall apart with age and only belong in corners in the dark. The forgotten don’t feel or feed, they sit quietly benign. They don’t taunt or beckon, they just exist in fog. I dont always remember to forget what was once mine.
There isn’t a point in cleaning the dust. You either live with the dirt or crumple them up. Toss them, burn them, don’t try make them clean.
The forgotten will stay silent until the night is much too silent. Leave them in the drawer. They will stay quiet until the quiet doesn’t stick. Leave them on the paper, don’t read them into life. Don’t try to dust what should be kept out of sight.