Things, mere things, when they are just;start smelling like a person, once touched.
Those creases like ribs,
plaits like folded hands,
collars like chalices that empty a little
everyday, drip by drip, as planned.
They were there when they weren't,
They will be there when I wouldn't,
passing through them to me;
impregnated with ghost memories,
touch them with your fingers
the way you love in your dreams.
As eternal orphans, they seek homes,
yet house their owners whole;
they become what they seek.
Reminders of various sizes,
of people who are no longer me.
What is it that a metre nurses?
while swaddling infants to draping hearses.
Do they rue eternity?
fixed forever like tunnels; stood;
through which we appear to disappear.
Like fathers, protecting what they should.
Image from here.
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