WHEN I LEAVE THIS HOME
There are many ways of thinking
this through, though I sit home
here, without you. When I am
not home, I guess, I am not here.
Rooming houses and places to
board, they are not usually like
this. We get to live a life; it
passes through, and we ride.
When we are gone, it is done.
Something about memory glistens
like water on a surface : Reflecting
things back, though we ought not
stare. This world is over.
You are not here.
No comments:
Post a Comment