It’s yearnings can’t be swept away with a broom.
Fuchsia walls; smelling of deodorant, dust and memory.
Bed boxes mark it’s occupant’s treasury.
Letters hidden in literature textbooks.
Worn out with stolen looks.
A rendition of Hotel California.
Food cravings and midnight phone calls.
The latter usually consists of drunken drawls.
Hopelessness and tears.
A culmination of teenage fears.
A conversation with the best friend.
Who stays till the end.
And suddenly I’m on the mend.