The Locked Door


What do you think about the words I keep writing about you?
Do they exhaust you?

I haven’t read many books in my lifetime. I actually wonder how I have spent the last ten years of my life. It feels like every morning, I wake up and I am already here—I was born with these memories I cannot decode. They make my head heavy. There is a room inside my brain; its door has been locked, and I have been wandering for the key. What will I find in there? Is it you?

I smell you during breakfast, especially when i take my last bite of morning carbs. I do remember telling you, right after making love, that it would be nice to eat your skin. The glow of your body under the rays of streetlights seeping through that one window renders you delicious—to have one last bite is not enough.

“I feel like we’re changing,” is the last you have said to me, right after making love. You rolled over to your side of the bed, pulling the blanket up on your shoulder. I am excluded from your dreams, banned from your nightmares. in this forest of inaudible memories, I cannot find a place to sleep. I watch headlights from cars, different hues of yellow, passing through the window, hitting the wall, sliding off onto dawn.

What do you think about the words I keep writing about you?
Do they exhaust you?

those were your boots I hear, running along the hall. Outside this door, I know I will find your old socks and the photo from when you were two. If I listen closely, if know I will hear you humming to claire de lune. You might even be dancing, too. You like that, don’t you? Singing songs I don’t know, reciting passages I am alien to. There’s always a party outside this door.


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