Still Life Image by kenne
Artifacts
We didn’t mean to make a museum—
it just happened.
Years stacked themselves in frames and shelves,
the way dust does, quietly,
without asking permission.
Now the walls speak:
my stubbornness pressed into a spine
of half-read philosophy.
We’ve kept the things that define us,
as if permanence could be persuaded
with enough sentiment and shelving.
It’s funny—
how a life becomes evidence.
The art we hung to express us,
the photos that swore we were young,
the books that pretended to explain us—
all of it now a kind of proof
that we were here,
fumbling toward meaning,
sometimes touching it
in the half-light between arguments
and morning coffee.
Getting on in life,
we walk through this quiet archive—
two curators of our own becoming,
grateful,
bewildered,
still hoping the next chapter
won’t forget to be kind.
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