And you shut it tight with a smile. All that remains
is the illusion of being complete, piece by piece. Of being attainable.
With time, those pieces become warped and do not fit
together again. But you do not un-shut the deadbolt. Rather, you find new pieces
to fill the gaps. The cracks. So tight, that no light is seen through.
You fill your red wine glass with white wine.
Without regrets. And for all the sunsets you missed, you raise that glass to a
name you never met. To the memories of all those without names.
Of that deadbolt you speak rarely. Sometimes you
only think about the door it holds tight. The one that was repaired with new
parts. The one that does not let light pass through.
And then, one sunrise, you wash your red wine glass
with a promise, wipe it dry with scar tissue, and fill it with cold coffee left
from a previous sunrise.
And you walk pass the door, the deadbolt still on
it. The coffee tastes like the first coffee you brewed in an old land. Or perhaps
like the second one. But the wine glass warms your hands.
You are not attainable at that moment. Because it
belongs only to you.
November 14, 2024
© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2024
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