The unwritten diary of a moth-eaten wardrobe speaks of warm embraces never shared, dangling threads of memories in a forgotten attic.
A forgotten umbrella’s shadow covers raindrops it never protected, longing for moonlit waltzes in deserted streets.
Whispers from an old phonograph lament the tunes of love whispers it broadcasted unfelt upon empty shores.
A shuttered windowpane wails silently for breath of fresh air privacy it could never gift an unguarded dawn.