There’s my childhood with my dolls
And the small truck I pulled on the floor
The smell of food coming from the kitchen
The kitchen was my neighbor.
The clock still lives on the wall
Ringing at 9:00 for school time
The cupboard smells of my clothes
That dirty bad smell of my school socks
My broken green pencil still lives in the cupboard.
There’s my torn picture of Bollywood stars
Shelves full of dust
My handwriting on the wall
In the corner I wrote with a red pen
“Well come to my crazy room”
Later I hid love letters under the floor.
Everything the same
But life is unfaithful
I am not there
I miss my crazy room
I miss that crazy time of my life.
photo of Bollywood stars at a Kabul market stall by James Reeve