Nocturne in B, Opus 62, no. 1

All the reasons why have been let loose

with the fraying edges of my suitcase

waiting at the door, sunlight seeping in,

the violet smell of the ever-blooming butterfly bushes

sweeping its way through my half-hearted consciousness.

The padding of bare soles on plush carpeted hallways

fading into an upstairs corner, and here before me,

the banister gleaming, dustless, and the quiet rush

of the bath water running in the white-tiled bathroom

of your foreign shore, your gated solitude,

and with it, my slender ache beginning,

all the hand-painted truths of that house

smiling their farewells.


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