Those things that still hang
taken to the grave, buried
the grief… sorrow… and
even the love
with those last words
that echo
the darkness,
stitching that holds you
down, “…whenever I look
at you…”
and how the variants
now only stones
in the garden
fossils that mark
the loose
a connection
knit and pearled
a sweater
that now
the closet hook,
its emblem
a reminder
like distant memories
snowy and cold,
the spiders
that clung
to the frosted window
and the glow
from the evening
light that creeps
the door’s gaps,
threads it all 
rivers that run wild
they pass
on untamed stories
hushed and
luscious tones
woven for you
a shell to wear
the winter
of these days.

light under the door

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