rebmasters

The Door

The door without you stood in it seems wrong somehow.

As if it had no other reason to open, to be a door, to exist at

all except to let you come in.

Staring at it, I can picture you there so easily;

struggling out of your long coat, trying to untie tangled

laces,

as I kiss you all the while and curse the impertinence of

your clothing,

stopping me from getting to you.

I blink and you are gone;

the door hazy too without the outline of you.

As a child I would lie in bed in the dark and sense the walls

stretching away

from me interminably into nothing.

Too big. I would squeeze my eyes tight shut and hide under

the covers.

I feel that way now as I look at the door. Your door. My

portal to you.

If only. My only.

That shockingly handsome face embarrassed at the

unpardonable adoration in my eyes.

You stay by the door a little too long and I soon realise

that it's not my portal to you, but your way to escape from

me.

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    somehow your narration style, reminds me of Proust's: 'In search of lost time'
    maybe its in your inclusion of childhood memories or in your ability to analyse a single object for all the meaning it has to yield, or maybe its in that searching tone of yearnful remembering..
    a good read, thanks for sharing

    • rebmasters

      Ah thank you friend. An honour to be compared to Proust. Although I suspect it is merely juvenile naivety and a stubborn unwillingness to grow up



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