Sometimes on my way home
I take a detour
and visit the haunted house
of our memories;
I try to spot the specter
of a love that we once shared,
unable to pick and remove
thorns from the nightmares
that still visit me some nights,
even after failed attempts
of uninviting them,
of un-wishing them;
The haunted house is painted black,
and the door that you left open
refuses to get shut
even though I reminisce
pushing it close with
all the power in my bones;
I wouldn't be lying if I said
I find peace
hanging, from those
sad dark walls
and I recognize the numbness
that stares back from the void
a gaze that at times
dims down the pain,
though only a little,
and more often aggravates
the ache in my heart;
But there is a certain comfort
in the holes that my fingers
brush through
in the marks on its walls
in the latch of the door unlocked
in the window curtains-
drawn apart, yet inept
in letting the sunshine come through,
As the bushes and thorns
re-etch the scars
over the dried and darkened roses
I seek a certain comfort
in the familiarity of it all;
Chasing memories as they unfold-
silhouettes on the wall,
as if music from a broken guitar,
and even though
the rainbow varies only
in shades of black and white,
I try to shape it in an
upward curve, a smile
stretching it across the room;
And I leave this door open,
in hopes that these specters
might follow me home someday.
Maniishark 