There’s a mental scrapbook,
bulging with sheets of nostalgia.
I barely recall these keepsakes,
even less what they meant.

A former life, ages upon ages
hardly missed in time’s shadows.
As I leaf through the pages,
they fade, turn brittle.

There’s a bedroom closet—
skirts, shirts, pants, jackets
once worn by an impostor,
the costumes never quite fit.

All somber and useless,
to be discarded or donated
until the closet empties,
then refills with lavender.

There’s an open window
framed with lacy curtains
that blow with the breeze,
beckoning to the light.