My Mind is an Attic


My mind works much like an attic,
Finding the past.
Our love was pure,
yet buried under ten years
of dust.
Neglect turned our 
records into
useless flying discs.
Emotional tides altered
our perception
of sex for passion
and sex by habit.
Love, sitting snuggled
next to childhood toys I played with
as a boy, found its
comfort in the darkness,
until I came looking for it.
Cob-webs let time
be kinder than it would
have otherwise.
Moments in the attic
remind me
how my brain once functioned,
love was never dead,
just dormant.


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