The Shape

by themapofantarctica

Spent the night recalling old voices,

listening to old songs in the key of lost years.

Two lights on in the bedroom

and an abandoned set of feelings,

rediscovered.

 

What am I to do with these?

Now that we both have new lives,

new lovers,

new problems.

 

They form a shape in my hands, invisible enough to pray for.

A shape of so many sides that it could never be described as a story.

It is heavier; more robust and consequential.

An object.

 

I do not know what to do with it now,

now that it is here again.

I have never been one to deny the significance of events.

 

I lie back on the bed,

and I think of a tin of paint

that releases a strong aroma

after having its thick layer of skin pierced.

 

There must be an art to this, I think to myself.

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