There's a museum
where love once welled freely,
a collection of relics and odds and ends,
carefully preserved behind glass panes and neat labels
gathering dust and history.

Sometimes I walk the quiet aeortic halls
treading familiar corridors to the echo of footsteps,
to read the plaques and leave fingerprints on the windows
exhibiting the old lives and old loves,
which have traded technicolour for antiquity

the night watchman of my own heart.