which is
all that exists between us,
there used to be
an unlocked door
through which we
could pass
on an errand or two
to the stacks—
those dank archives of
pitiful feeling
we'd been hording
on the off-chance
an adventurer
would come looking
and discover there
the treasure that would
make them world-famous.
And through that hall
and the labyrinths
which surround it
have long since fallen
into disrepair,
I can tell from this distance
that the door
is still there—because
every time you ask me
where I've been or
how it's going,
I can faintly hear
the quick pop
of a lock—and the sound
of it stubbornly
creaking open.
