Unhealed Hope

The attic is warm as the afternoon sun slants through the dusty window. He stands still long enough  for the past to settle around him. Boxes are stacked by weight, not importance. His handwriting, from previous decades, labelling the contents. He carefully sorts through the inventory. A broken watch. An empty photo frame. A plant that once grew toward him. He places the trash into a bag  as he organises. He takes a pen that still works. Takes out his notebook. Keep: Winter coats, Vinyl records, Photo albums, Tool box (incomplete) The list calms him.  It has margins. It has order. It asks nothing from him. Satisfied, he caps the pen and tucks the notebook away. There is a woman in the attic. She sits on a box, watching him Until the sorting is complete. She reaches her hand toward him, and he takes it without thinking, His left hand finding hers before consequence can enter the room. His right hand lifts the trash bag,  and together they move toward the door. He stop...

She was born in a mansion with infinite rooms, And spends life exploring the halls. Some rooms, she lives in. Some rooms, she visits.  And some rooms aren't meant for her at all. Those places are empty, but they're meant to be filled, So she faces the strangers outside, Trying people on, Sizing them up, But the choice isn't hers to decide. Most are afraid when she shows them her home, They prefer to remain at the door, But one man peeked in, And he didn't back down, So she invited him in to see more. She showed him the places she feels most at home, And the ones that make her feel wrong. Then they came to a room, And he pulled out a key... And he walked in like he'd always belonged. He says he can't stay in her mansion of rooms. He's not ready, but "maybe some day..." But he already fits, He's already home, And she wants him exactly this way. He comes like a visitor, but he has all the keys. He effortlessly opens the locks. And she sits alone w...

Some butterflies dart by in a blur of colour, With sunshine on their wings Racing their friends Seeking colourful places. Joyful, beautiful brightness, In the corner of my eye. Oblivious to me. Some stop to land in my garden They perch on the highest branches of the trees, They pause briefly in the tangle of bushes, Or rest lightly on spring blossoms. If they sense my shadow, they fly away So I watch them from afar Until they leave. Most often, I see what once were butterflies, But are no longer. A single wing caught in a web Gathered amongst fallen leaves Or caught in a flurry on the pavement. A beautiful memory. With careful work, I have built my own cocoon Trying to determine who I will become When I finally emerge. I long to join the butterflies Colourful and dainty Beautiful and oblivious, Memorable. I suspect that I am a moth. Tenille