Ajar

You occupy a sweet room now,
carefully constructed
in a corner of my house
- a door I sometimes open.

You've moved from the living room
where all the anguish
could not turn into love
and left me as a dying child.

Now brief moments
find me climbing the stair,
yellow light and door ajar
to watch you there.

But sadness slipped away;
for memory is softer still,
than your touch
so long ago.

- Les Blough

More poetry by Les Blough

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