Senses of Something

You

Senses of something
just beyond
the seen;
Mystery.

How comforting
it is to keep you
imprisoned
in the neatly arranged
room of my mind
Everything in its place
No strewn socks 
No unlabeled jar

But then she talks
so confidently
"This is what this means,"
she says.
"This is how you do it."
How can she be so sure
and not be trembling
in some secret place
that she could be wrong?

Restlessness
Unease
my soul fluttering
like a quiet moth
near the light

I go to the room
knock on the door
silence
I peek in
the room is spotless
no shadow of dust
I go in and sit on the couch
wait
wait 
wait
the decor
its neat gaudiness
familiar
as if I have seen it before
as if I have been here before
perfect in form
it weighs on me
a surprising burden

I want to leave
I go to the door
but it is locked
I scream and shout
bang and plead
but no one comes.

I sit back down
and look once more
and I remember
this is my room
my safety 
my refuge
now my prison.

You
were never here.


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