Haunt; or the Persistence of Memories

Some absences never leave. What lingers—of houses gone, of rooms vacated, and of shelves cracked—the marks fade. Yet the dust never quite settles.

Abandonment is strange. You might move on, but what you were never leaves. Photo by Elias Schupmann on Unsplash

Wasn’t there a bookmark here?
A pause to return to?
A breath to reclaim?
A moment to relapse?

It seems to have faded into memory
torn over melted awnings,
and poured over the drains
of a once sun-baked villa.

The only feeling I can recall
on its textured smoothness:
a stain left from a teacup
chipped, yet sweet abrim.

Sticky though it always was,
I could stick it anywhere
in ever-yellowing pages 
of the escapes I left behind. 

Wasn’t there a bookmark here?
A chance to return to?
A life to relive?
A portal to reopen?

It seems to have smothered in
those yellowing pages old,
now rust, ashes, and dust
of a once proud shelf. 

There was another sensation:
obverse its opal coral plains
and you’d see a faint calamity
that rained in showers of red. 

Thick though it used to be,
that blood has since thinned
washed away in rains
of the dreams I left behind. 

Wasn’t there a bookmark here?
A thought to return to?
A dream to redream?
A wish to fulfil? 

It seems to have been forgotten
flushed away under sinks,
crushed under the bricks
of a once weathered grave. 

There is only a faint wisp
of the words that had cut
and a slap that did hurt;
ghosts of old memories. 

Wasn’t there a bookmark here?

I can’t remember anymore,
but these pages afresh
and pristine with blue ink
have filled the gouges, old.