By Elisa Uccello
The walls would have pictures
of you, in your favorite blue shirt.
Maybe it was grey.
The color got lost somewhere
like us.
Behind broken glass, letters
I wrote but never sent.
Would you have read them,
under the stars,
to find out I love you?
Is love an art?
A wooden hanger
would hold the shirt I gave you.
That room would smell like you;
like hugs, and smiles, but sometimes
like yearning.
Does love have a meaning, or is it
the meaning?
It doesn’t matter
as long as it’s real.
In the furthest end of the hall
there would be a room; but
the door would always
be locked.
Inside, the things I fear.
You can’t go in, or maybe
you’re already there,
and I’m not.
Either way,
I’m the prisoner.
Did we discover love
or did we invent it?
Or does it not exist
outside of our minds?
I walk around,
entering and leaving
heart full of rooms,
rooms full of art, hoping.
Maybe one day,
I’ll see you in my museum.
Then I’ll leave,
so you can have it.
It was always meant to be yours.
