Up on the ceiling, there were cobwebs untouched,
and hair strands on the dusty corners of the room.
I could smell medicine, probably from the vibrant syrup bottles stacked inside the cupboard.
Few black and white frames hung on the wall,
As if time was wrapped inside them.
A certain melancholy transcended the space, mellowed and calm.
Then she entered the room.
Neither the serene white strands in a neat bun nor the wrinkles dimmed her beauty.
But what did elevate her face was the warm smile she had.
Which made me think, solitude is certainly what you want it to be.
What do I want from here?
Maybe one day I can listen to the thousand memories of those photos on the wall,
Maybe one day I can hang a bright-hued frame of us beside them.