Museum of the Past
I visit the Museum of the Past in my memory.
Still life paintings I stroll through, lazily, my hands clasped behind my back.
There, the glass you drank from, still holds the print of your bottom lip.
I break the rules and pick it up. I fit my mouth where yours was and imagine your taste, your scent.
I wonder what this particular work of art looks like when you are the artist. And I wonder which of us is the closest to reality.
I have no doubt that you imagine yours to be true, even if you are fooling yourself. Which is exactly what makes hating you, blaming you, impossible.
Oh, there is our song playing through the speakers in the museum walls…an instrumental, “elevator music” version. Why do I love to wallow in this sweet ache of sorrow?
At least I have no more regrets of what I haven't done …now I can only regret what I have.
One last look over my shoulder then I turn off the museum lights and walk away.
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