How many times have I stood here
At the door?
Hesitating.
Straining against the rushing current of my emotions.
Anticipation. Dread. Fear. Hope.
The narcotic that draws me here over and over.
Fucking hope.
The door swings open silently.
No creaking hinges. I come here too often for that.
Hope is crushed.
Dread is king.
Dread knew the room would be empty.
Untouched.
It has been for a long time now.
Fucking hope.
Dust motes swirl in the light
as if they are the memories
trying to catch my attention.
Old memories.
Once bright, now faded to pastels.
Dim as distant mountains.
When I leave this time I won't be back.
Coming here only causes pain.
I know the room will be empty.
It has been ever since.
It's time to let go.
Fucking hope.