Closed Doors

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The scent of you on your pillowcase has gone

I am loath to wash it

just in case like you

it might return.

 

This place has too many memories.
I am trying to scrape them together

scrapbook them into some sort of tag eared worn diary

a calendar

prose

something, anything.

 

My mind will not still

will not focus

and will not remember

just the good times.

 

The tracing of your fingertips on my face

soft words of love spoken in passionate moments of bliss.

 All I remember is the front door was in desperate need of a paint

and I only noticed as you left.

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