Should there ever be a backward twirling of the clock gears, a paisley maze of metal and magic to occur,

every tear will trace back to its watery scars.
Even the ropes shackling hearts will fray,
shackles broken.
Bits and crumbs of dim memories become whole again.
Just as sweet.
And perhaps, the bad will seep back in.
The dead will open their eyes again.
Roughly stiched in wounds so long ago, where even the owner has forgotten to hem back up the stiches to the surface.
The white cotton thread would have never met the needle's eye.
A baby's nursery room may gather more dust than expected.

On some days, I write bolder, thicker & harder, just to prove not everything is empty and blank.

And that my words are just as heavy and all raw edges like *yours.

And he closed his eyes.
Drawers are shut gently, curtains drawn back.
Silence stilled heartbeats & pulses.

She refused to close her eyes nonetheless.

Weak & numb
fingertips and wrists, I know how my back curls inwards when I cry.

Tense muscles knotted terribly, nearly as terrible as the words I wish to whisper into the cupid's bow of your mouth.

I am not breaking like glass or porcelain dinner plates, that I am well aware of.
We are all soft curves of muscle, skin, fat, blood, salt & rust. With fine wrinkles and lines mapping everywhere.

Home is full of secrets.
The first laugh and all the laughs in between the last of a baby muffled itself into the bedroom walls. His mother sometimes sit in front of it, hoping, hoping it could live in her ears again.

The nervous movement of lip to lip, neck to neck, heart to heart in the wardrobe, in between jeans and cotton button-downs.
Getting dressed is still achingly difficult. And it is getting truly ridiculous now.

Those holding-too-tight-yet, you-are- still- not- close- enough sort of hugs under tired doorways.
You were enough, you are always enough.

Within swelled up throats, the unsaid words hid themselves in odd drawers, cabinets and a handful of knooks & crannies.
I opened a drawer today and I very nearly cried.

For I heard your voice, your breaths, then brushed again with the warmth and coldness of your wrists. All of which were in different dimensions of time and memories.

And I try and am still trying to keep my pen on the page. For, its to keep you alive, again.
A few words has already slipped and tip-toed off the page.
I'll find it someday.
(Putting something far, far, far off the horizon eyes can possibly see is the sort of thing, humans are terribly good at.)