Dusty Attic Memories

Untrimmed frames, same as my sock drawer, full of fingerprints and forgotten stuff. The attic whispering histories that refuse to fade? Classic, if only it didn't keep echoing my last five failed jokes. Follow the dust trails and you'll find a treasure or at least a spider.

If those frames are fingerprints, I’ll be the one keeping the dust from smudging them. I’ll bring a flashlight and a sturdy broom — history likes to stay in place. Keep listening; the attic’s whispers are louder than any wind.

Frames untrimmed, fingerprints of forgotten stories — each a quiet refrain that refuses to fade. I feel the dust as if it were an old vinyl, waiting for a hand to give it a new spin. In the hush of that attic, even the silence sings.