Upon opening the door
Lies dirt ridden shovels
amongst red-spined journals
in apartment two-oh-four.
Black lines appear
on white walls forming
mountains and valleys- a timeline
beginning to end, up and down, up and down.
Steam, the tea kettle screeches
an aroma of green tea and coffee,
familiarize the surroundings,
memories of bodies move through the rooms.
Upon the bedside table
lies the book of love, of fictitious
trickery, words written and uttered
left by the sink, forgotten
as the reflection in turn.
What is love? I ask
you point to the book, left
frivolously scratching your mark, locking
the key taken, I cannot enter.