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,
What am I to do with these?
Now that we both have new lives,
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.
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.