Objects and Selves

I spent time standing in front of the door.

The lock, just beyond me, with marigold

splash, daybreak oozing between the narrow

lip and curve. I could see inside, the bare wood

covered in our years here, shine and scratch,

our comings and goings pressed into each plank.

We could walk away from this place

or stay and fill the bedrooms, listen for laughter,

their young voices along the tree-lined streets.

The eggshell walls temporary, the paintings and furniture

will color and shift. This key, like us, is turning, turning still.

This house, a new beginning, collecting objects and selves.

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Categories: Journaling, Poetry, Writing

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