The box of fluorescent memories
stands a little flushed,
where flowers have flowered,
and branches have branched
to broach the open doorway
- a ribbon around the wrapping
of festive ruminations.
I untie the fading hair of memory,
unwrap my crinkling skin,
to find inside a burning hearth,
enflaming the sight of withered wood
around the riddled doorway,
and the patterned carpet, paper thin
dust sprinkled over everything;
the tiny Christmas tree table,
the ornaments of lifeless porcelain,
the clock on the mantle still stuck
at 1 since childhood,
its tiny door forever locked,
the key a charm on your necklace,
you, asleep, in the cold armchair.
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