everywhere.
i can
see that
from
the door.
to the ceiling, spread
out on each floor.
the death
of an ancient
loved one
and suddenly there are
seven clocks,
more
art than the walls
can hold. vases
enough
to break one per day.
all of it has
felt your touch,
your hands,
your fingers
each with some dusty
memory attached,
but
it does nothing
for you, not
even
the flush
bank account
matters. no exotic travel
will bring
them back,
no car, no dress,
no lavish meal,
or piece of gold
can save
the heart
from missing.
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