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Poem

I sort the silence and the sighs,
The dreams lost in old goodbyes,
They fill the drawers of my days,
And leave wind blowing through my haze.
I keep the pain I never voiced,
The hopes that died without a choice,
Pages linger in my spellbound book,
But it’s all the same, since you never looked.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
I gather missed appointments, late,
Ghost trains, frozen faces, twisted fates.
They leave timetables with no names,
And autumn’s chill that never wanes.
I carve the void with quiet care,
Make art from the space where you’re not there.
Only my monotone words remain,
Since you flee whenever roots take aim.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
Just a museum of wounds,
Where your name blurs hopes I thought immune.
I store the hours standing still,
Lost calls on fragile voicemail thrills.
They shatter light across my screens,
And stitch the void into my dreams.
I sort the echoes of past I love yous,
The ruins of a we with nothing true.
And I become that roaming heart again,
Since you were just a soul-shaped flame.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of loves that expire, of moments marooned.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of tears turned to art, of sorrow too pure, too soon.
Just a museum of wounds,
Of kisses undone, of love with no return,
Of love with no return.

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