November 3rd.

It smelled like dust
the last time I was there

And nothing made sense;
Boxes upon boxes

Of nothing at all
And the sense that it would all be over
Soon

But I didn't want it to be
I didn't want it to end

Pale voices shook the clouds of dust away
And I was too fragile to realize then
that I was as peculiar and frail as the china dolls on the shelves,
as the worn down photos hung upon the walls,
so small;
but I suppose
we all are
sometimes...

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