You came to my home,
for a visitation.
I asked about john.
Surprised,
you told you me he was dead,
and I laughed,
at your nonsense.

Upon your leaving,
through the door frame,
I noticed new paper,
on the wall,
outside my room.
Why was it already,
peeling?

The window,
had already been opened;
a gentle breeze,
soft as fleeting memories.
Drifting and spiraling,
in every direction,
freely passing.

I watched you through the frame,
sombre in the parking lot,
wondering what was left of me.

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