There’s my bed with its small, dirty pillow
And the blue walls and the white dirty ceiling
A roomful of memories.

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. 

By Roya

photo of Bollywood stars at a Kabul market stall by James Reeve