The dried roses from an ocassional splurge that happened six months ago hangs upside down on my window. They do not smell sweet like they did on the first day but when the light filters through the brown, dry, almost withering petals of the flowers that could have been long forgotten, they make the mornings a tad bit more beautiful.
I save pictures of inanimate objects. I save pictures of books I read or the corners of the rooms I live in or the coffee I drank in solace. The pictures of the walls with their edges curved and rugged, blurred memories of how