MUSEUM OF WOUNDS

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.