So much of life is past tense
these days, even when spoken of
in what passes for the here and now.
though the facts themselves
remain anything but clear.
I still look for you when I enter
those musty white rooms,
my mind waltzing between what
I know and all that I cannot.
You know I never learned to dance,
or to feign forgetfulness.
But the past no longer requires
our presence, no matter how often
we wander through, touching
one item, then another, as if we
might be found within them.
Our fingerprints stick to nothing.
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