POEM: Museum

Updated on February 8, 2018


I descend the spiral staircase
in my pupil, entering
the orange-glow hallways
where holograms hang suspended

on the gray walls, projections
of names, phone numbers, disjointed
memories of break-ups,
drunken Christmases scattered around

and swept downstream
by an electric current, flooding my nerves.
I see the origins of my back pain.
I see the origins of my twitchy leg:

a blank square surrounded by years of dust.
Your portrait's removal
did nothing to erase muscle memory,
a phantom limb beneath the firmament of skull,

a pile of broken glass, an empty frame -
only my projections remain.
And neither of us are Us, anymore.
I took you off the wall,

but there is still a wall.

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