This, Too, Shall Leave You Mourning a World That Has Moved On Without You
Last night, I dreamt that I was
an exhibit in a museum of sadness.
As I stepped through the glass, I found
that I was the only witness to myself.
I called your name and heard an echo.
I can’t remember which one of us built
these doorless walls around me.
Like rain, you were there until you weren’t.
No matter how many times I put my wet clothes
through the dryer, I still wake up hoping for a text.
There were two episodes left in season one
of that show. There are so many endings
I will never know or understand. Maybe this world
moved on without me, the tape rolling on and on
as I sit at a table set for ghosts.
In every room, a miscellany of memory
becomes a collage of ache with time,
every word overripe or stale, the sweetness
sickening. Old notes, handwritten.
A half-burned candle. Wilted orchids.
My shoes, filled with new feet.
I dreamt that I followed a trail of your hair
to the edge of the ocean, found you floating
in its wake and swam until we knew each other again,
our wounds mended. Instead, I find salt reopening
each one. You step out of the memory
and leave me here, rewinding tapes,
my name written out of your script.