I taste the solitude.
It's a house with
many doors, none
a paean of the
memory you so
dutifully preserved.
It's cold, the verses
have gone silent; the
frost in the wind
settles reluctantly
on tired lips. The air sweating
time like mist on
closed windows. How
long will we brush
the dust of silence
under the duvet?
How long the dream
be our sole memory?
The smile I adorned
was a stolen dream. The
shoes have been discarded,
the dust wiped out clean.
The vagabonds of years
past return home, the
memory a deep
longing;searching for
places to hide.
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