but it felt good.
the open front door,
the peeled varnish,
upon frail wood
- swollen,
to gradually bend off
two rusted hinges.

it served only as a written invitation
for all critters and
unpleasantries
once shut out
to linger in the cold.

i stacked my things
in cracked boxes,
upon cracked shelves.
ancient coffee rings printed
from the base of ***** mugs,
like half-moons,
on the lips of wooden panels
drenched in whitewash.

a bare face bathed
chin up, clenched eyelids
in the light of a sky outside.
a hollow echo,
the dripping of water
inside this vacant cave.
the china cup is half full.

a single pull, transitional.
the separation of two stars.