I walked into the little yellow room,
full of books and mugs, pens and papers, old and new,
rusted and fresh, chaotic mix of memories, yet the most peaceful in the house.
Where sweet tunes of silence play on an old record,
where you and I share our thoughts,
Where we dance on ‘aint no sunshine’
Where I smile, when you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation,
I walked into our little yellow room,
A cup of tea, half empty or full,
A scent so familiar, lingering in the air
pages full of little thoughts that now seem to be more yours than mine.
scribbled upon with ink fresh still,
The last sentence incomplete..’Mile and a half apart we..’
Left in a hurry didn’t you?
Its my yellow room now,
where the record still plays tunes of silence, remixed with melancholy
and the memories stick to me like poison ivy on a damp wall..