Sunday, February 29, 2004

a home abandoned long enough
returns to its base components
walls, windows, doors, floors and ceilings

the sum becomes considerably less
than its parts

old books lean listlessly on shelves
next to faded pictures of places
long-forgotten, friends
no longer familiar

a film of dust covers them all

the last mix tape from years ago hides
at the bottom of the box
at the back of the shelf
in the closet never opened

the dust on the doorknob
is proof of its neglect

we are more likely to pick at scabs
than encourage healed wounds
to remember the sting of antiseptic
over the soothing hand that applies it

if familiarity breeds contempt
complacency is the petri dish
and we are mad scientists
competing to find the cure
to our homemade ills

a heart left untreated long enough
hardens to stone
its only hope is to break
shatter into millions of pieces small enough
to dissolve and start anew

when the silence stretches too far
the hurt settles into a dull but tolerable ache
the blind faith of separate paths
intersecting in the unseen distance
starts to weaken, threatens the stability of
home and heart

on the stereo in the living room
store-bought CDs set on random
shuffle in vain to clear the toxins from the air

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