Something has to be old,
not this eternal new, no scuffed corners or
stories to tell.
Without scratches and scars of history
what are we
but endless remakings missing the one ingredient
making us us.
That old floor, concrete, painted red
holds, simply, the scent and memory of red
the countless footfalls and dropped coffees
words, silent songs, and resting weight
of decades of loved use.
Old meets time
where novelty hasn’t the guts
to leave its natural mark.