I stand and stare at books upon my shelves.

The honeyed wood is covered up with dust.

Absent-eyed, I pick up a book at whim.

I’ve read this and can quote it all at will.

 

I move to let light through plantation blinds.

The Frankenstein roads have seen better days.

The vivid trees are not the trees of home.

I think they’ll never feel familiar.

 

I wonder where this music box has been?

The tune is sweet and doesn’t have a name.

The picture next to it, in its glass frame,

Speak of a time that won’t come back again.

 

This sketchbook only has one sketch inside.

It’s full of quotes that touched me, including

Something a friend once said to me, “You’re just

So you—completely irreplaceable.”

 

Irreplaceable. Idly, I wonder

Whether he was right or wrong about me

And why we fell out of touch for two years.

I wonder if the person he recalls

Is in tune with the person I am now.

 

These pictures and these chapters are a key

Unlocking recollections of old life.

Life can never go back to how it was.

I should be glad that I was happy once.