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...