You told me that the
tables had shifted;
moved along their
legs into some other
space,
their shutters
had come down,
along
with the blinds
and it was all sent
down for good.
You said that
this place held
memories
etched into
every corner of
it's being,
you said you were
used to spending
afternoons
navigating through
the same corridors
you'd spent the
last year getting
lost in
and I thought
of the tables
turning themselves
away
in departure,
dust settling
on wood
turning into
old rusty
wood.
I thought of
how similar tables
would
move into the spaces
you'd let them occupy,
they'd reclaim their title
and
similar legs and spine
would stand
straight across a
plain, against
which you
set cards and
half empty bottles.
Things we leave
behind
take up portions of us,
cling to our skin
and make us
feel still within
and
this feeling won't
escape you soon
but I want you
to know that
you can
always trace your
mind around maps
of places that exist
only in memory,
you can
revisit them sometimes,
but you must bring
your defenses along.