I can feel myself retreating into this little box
The box is quiet
Save for the occasional patter of raindrops
I stopped counting long ago
The piano keys are still worn
And the strings of the cello even more so
My fingers still carry the scars of last March
And the scars in my mind still remain untouched wounds
I worry that every time my fingers skim over I’ll hit a nerve
Or botch a thought
Or destroy a plan
For this has all happened before.
It happened a year ago.
It happened in the little box
Yet no rain sounded from the outside
I remember that much.
I’ve written many poems about memory, recently. This is partly because many of my memories have resurfaced, in the most unpleasantly nostalgic of ways. However, with every replayed memory comes a new revelation, and I am grateful for those. At this rate, I’ll have enough epiphanies to drown out the bad experiences. Hopefully.