Remnants

The door swept open,
Autumn had become a tickle in our throats,
And silent prayers from last year
Collected as dust on the floor
– like lint on plush couches.
Our stories we tell by candlelight.
Aware of what it means to be cautious,
I pressed them into myself
Like flowers in old books.
At last,
Autumn took her chances in arriving early.
The door ajar,
I retraced familiar steps of how I walked up to my bed.
I took the steps as if the floor would cave in.
One day it will reveal the past of ourselves and who has tasted the words such as ours,
In a different time.

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