Tracey
The old building creeps out
your steps to me,
as I follow,
through winding halls of
open doors
and scattered rooms,
holding memories
of other
needy hearts.
I hear your breath,
as the breeze winds through
the cracks in the windows,
injuries of another time,
as we make our own memories,
scattering through
the empty space,
chasing each other,
in vain.
Copyright © Ian Kilfoil | Year Posted 2011
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