The door

The door.

There’s a door one day you’ll leave through.
I opened it once and you were there, in my heart, forgotten and retrieved, my heart, not you.
You are in all I feel. All I felt and should you go I’d not feel numbness for that would be a blessing. I’d feel no pain within that loss, a person that torn feels nothing.
They cease to exist.
Their writing would reverse in time slowly unwriting themselves, disappearing into the ether, their voices changing, becoming the background noise of the T.V or heater or a hundred other inanimate and unrecognised daily items we don’t love.
Photo’s fade as names on bills turns to white on an unpolished table I never owned, I wouldn’t have time to wave goodbye to the reflection I don’t have in a mirror I couldn’t see, as I didn’t turn to dust and simply ceased to be as I opened the door I’d leave through.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014


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