Oh list, you sit anchored by a book of fictions blowing about facing the wind of an oscillating fan. I wonder what you hold in store for my roommate. Groceries? To-dos? Inane drunken ideas?
No. You are list of grand accomplishments-- mountains climbed, womenfolk wrested, missions accomplished, footprints scattered across the globe like broken down cars on an interstate.
No. You are a list of epic sentences-- the best of a young mind's continual efforts. Hyphens, commas, syllables and alliteration bandying about like a belly-dancer at the beginning of her shift.
No. You are a list of morose sights-- dead grandparents, bloodied fists, crooked billed-birds with feathers still falling from too-clean windows, dead dogs on the sides of dirt roads. You are the wrong sight at the right times forever.
No. You are a list of makeshift stopgaps-- jobs quit amicably, bridges unburned, significant others still in contact. You are the realization of near-loneliness and soluable salutations.
No. You are a list of pragmatic decisions-- split-ups before things got too serious, dogs put to sleep, gifts exchanged on the Eve of Christmas, shirts in donations boxes despite still being in fashion. You are a remembrance of things still around but out of mind.
No. You are a list of continual boredom-- animals drinking, videos scaling the internet climbing walls, arguments had over too much time in one room together, longing. You are a blank white wall, bereft of art taken by former live-in lovers.
Or are you?
Yes and no. I was right
the first time.