Little Fictions

The rosewood door to your dream house still haunts me while I sleep.

I wanted to walk the highroad but you dragged me into the deep.

Withheld secrets spilled on the floor, sour air between our bodies

As you ask me to close the door from the other side

And find some better hobbies.

The keys to my old apartment hide in your closet with all the “sorries”.

I spend my weekends cutting little fictions out of our happiest stories.

There’s no way we got that far up the mountain just to die on a hill,

No way a pile of ash destroyed the paper palaces

The strongest fires couldn’t kill.

Now whenever I drive by your house, it doesn’t remind me of home.

You can change the paintings and curtains, but you cannot rebuild Rome.

Every new morning comes with another ounce of sharpened lucidity,

And I hope it cuts my pride open just enough

To defy your gravity.