The room above my birth

there’s still an indent,
where the tan fabric used to hang,
and there remains
a tint of greeen, below the pink,
above the orange.
small phantom footsteps 
discovering the pressure points beneath the rug.
then, a quiet voice, 
trickling through the thick air;
‘goodnight sweetheart, i hate to go.’
Memories faded against 
name changes and forgotten linens
lurking in lock boxes through 
anger of expectations —
rabbits running above dust bunnies hidden under the 
sticker clad wardrobe.
and there is blood dried
from soles well worn against
the small waves of fibers,
stitched in ugly browns 
and beautiful hands.
a collective worth more than ten lives;
but could never be sold for more than a penny.
and in the middle — two children, lying alone,
counting acrylic stars adhered to the roof above...
a world not yet unknown — 
in the room above my birth.