SWEETACHE

small patterned rugs with tassel ends that

point

like the starting line up

of

a

worm race

and

the photos with dated pattered furniture already old

of cheese-grin people

sitting on a sofa theyd never normally all sit on 

at 

once

and

the cupboards with packets of unfamiliar condiments

with strange fonts and colours 

and 

dull tangs and dust

and

the shoes with the labels worn unreadable

that rest

with toes touching

on brown floorboards 

in 

a 

rented corner

and

cables with red lights and chargers or straighteners

curled under the bed

and

the quiet eyes of tilted mirrors tagged with sketches and tickets

and

the folded and organised pages of diaries and a box of pens 

all 

with 

lids

all like childrens toys/innocent and helpless and trying . . .

i am filled with a sweetache that pangs in my heart bone

when i

quietly observe these ornaments and symbols and edifices

that

ARENT meagre but ARE small

their 

drama and portent silenced but obvious

by 

cute and careless and haphazard placing

somehow