Sunshine Through a Peephole

What do you miss, heart?

That, which was left behind?

Or that, which would never be?

The trappings of a mournful dawn,

Or the tugging of the strings beneath?

The grotesque similarities of thine lost worlds,

or the inward distortions of the spiraling seas?

What is it that you crave?

The brittle air that crumbled in your fists,

Or the stardust that turned to ash?

The crossroads at the darkest hour,

Or the flames that poured down,

sooting the white statues on the lush grass?

The ticking of the veins bidding the hour gone?

The purple bruises on the streets?

The hollow calls of the creaking swings?

They are gone, long past. 

Out the window, out of the doors,

where it rains eternally,

slithering down the walls,

winding across courtyards,

into the sea, over and over, by and by.

The never-ending dance of light and grey

beckons us backward,

to our hollowed soul.

We stand thus naked, 

not naked still, for we are

warped in our long lost grief.

I write to you, and wish,

Oh wish! How you would open up

to me.

Look, it's sunrise, in it's golden glory.

Look, it bathes us, embraces us.

Let it flow, let it go.

Close the drawers, once and for all.

The yellowing pages,

the fading memories of what was never yours,

is that what you miss?

Or the crutches, the binding ropes,

the clipped wings?

The knot in the throat,

the sigh of defeat?

What do you miss, heart?

What do you miss?

And why?