Again, rough and more free versey and conversational than what I usually write.
I turn a key to a door
that no longer leads to you.
The paint chips around the panes
dirt and webs crowd each corner.
Our home was bright--
a cheery yellow in a world
blurring around the edges, gray and black.
I hold on to the dreams we shared: a deck
extended for years, a privacy fence for the dog and kids.
But I realize your dreams no longer match mine.
How do I continue to move through this place with these old things,
these trinkets, lost and found.
A mirror, a clock, time
running out and me still here,
thin and frail.