My mind
a corridor
darkened and depthless
infinite oaken doors
line the crumbling walls
each of them:
containing not one; but two
of the horrors I call thoughts,
pondering fears
damp carpets line the floor
blood red in color
and rough to the touch
but enter the library
that I call my memories
spiraling bookshelves -
in all directions
neglected papers – strewn
crinkled papers, underfoot
dusty covers of old records
deteriorating volumes of
past lives
in the back – a shadowy corner
is where I sit
tears running down my cheeks
body shaking – sobbing
as a film strip rolls
over and over
replaying the moments
in which I dream I could live again
These moments in which
I have spent with you.
