Little brass scratches under the keyhole of this door. Visitation marks I don't remember leaving. Infinitely small shavings of regret and pining seeded into the carpet. Evidence of assault? Or lamentation of weakness?
Only my heartbeat thrums through my stillness. I stare for a long time; too long. My mind a hungry vortex. A whispering maelstrom I paddle against with a sociopath's fury. To keep from being swallowed without fanfare, and without logic.
There's no reason for me to draw the perpendicular lines of presumption, other than hopefulness. Hope and wishful thinking: the door I closed-- but did not lock-- some time ago. Buried under fallen purity, and golden flecks, and phoenix down.
I tell myself-- with firm hollowness-- "There are no visitors", as I trespass against my own sanctuary.
10:46 p.m. - 2014-12-02
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