2022 CE
The cabinet maws open wide, craving my memories. I stuff all I have, the little that fit inside a 2006 Toyota Prius, into their demanding stomachs. They yearn for more, for me to acquire bullshit one thrift expedition at a time. The kitchen cabinets with their grey-streaked exteriors seem placid, hiding insides churning with half-envisioned layouts powered by insomnia. Cans of cider bought one day before the business closed, delivered by the Reverend himself, who I assured he did good. Cereal of various staleness, majority consumed then forgotten and a new box stacked upon it. Photo booth strips pinned by cheap San Francisco tourist magnets, four people aside me - my ride or die and the kalediscope mind who tells me truths I cannot admit. Two people I do not presently speak to and look each day with crushing insecurity. Yet they do not go in the drawer.
The aching empty floor but for a red carpet, the apartment chanting for more, more. Does this yawning expanse not harmonize with the contents of your heart? Furniture perpetually moved- bookcase shoved against the desk, shoved against the wall. A queen sized bed with terracotta sheets rotated to the wall, then three months later back. Dressers dance, lamps lose their place and stand guard in no place in particular.
It is a space that no amount of love can fill, it is a purple door to a studio that is empty inside. Knickknacks, looseleaf teas, feminine clothing that’s perhaps a bit too feminine now that I think about it, the past-expiration Trader Joe’s pollo asado burrito in the one drawer in the fridge that has stuff in it. The drawers stay empty. All the memories were thrown away many moves ago. All the dreams too.