The pile of boxes
Lay at the end of the bed
She stands
Researching
Rehearsing
Each line he said

Her horizons
Endless, nameless
A story starting with her sun

She acted all day
Perfecting the play
Of forgotten summers

At night, her mind in transit
Musical interlude
Records spin on repeat
Arms stretching
Around every boy she meets

Staring
She looks at them now
Vinyl sleeves worn thin
Each song tells a story
Needle scratches
beneath her skin

She'll never forget his face
Feelings transcend time
But still the rock
keeps turning
Burning, forever

Telling tales of youth gone by
Eternally lost
In the orbit
of her mind's eye.

Picture portraits in a small photo,
generations on a great hall's walls.
Prominent people of the past,
lives emptied out in a room now empty,
but still present in its patinated patterns.

Like pretend gods they covet their ill-gotten goods,
while the room fills with artisan phantoms,
championing their creative crafts,
charming the furnishings they fashioned.
Their lives survive only in their works,
some unattributed, unfamed but unshamed.

There's that feeling again,
a pressure to return.
It could never be the same,
next time no longer unique.
I'd need something new from it.
For now, I'm waking from
the author's dream.