by Gopu Sunil
In the wooden cupboard,
things are kept long after their use.
A cracked cup
no one drinks from.
A key
that no longer remembers its door.
Receipts fade into blank paper.
Rubber bands lose their will
and settle into still circles.
Nothing is thrown away—
not out of need,
but out of habit.
Even the air inside
smells of waiting.
Sometimes,
I open it
just to check
if absence has weight.
It doesn’t answer.
But it stays.