by J.F. Pringle
Memories drag like a rake across open wounds,
Specters of things that were,
Musings of heart-stir.
Broken things shatter again in empty rooms,
Blank paged baby books,
Unfilled picture frames.
Come with me damaged one to your closet,
Unsightly trappings,
Of dried up bones.
Unfilled hearts need to be alone.