selective memory

like an eight year old boy
wandering through the
spaces of an empty
house; 

whose corners are filled with dust,
whose ceilings have worn-off in time,
with floors that creak of
memories from the footsteps of
the people that lived here
long before,

thick, overgrown,
loose,
         virgin;

I move to the unoccupied spaces
of my body, and of my mind,

slowly breathing,

slowly dying.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s