Turnstyles in the Heart

Scratched into a tender arm. Traces of a picture lost. Stabbed away by many strangers. I never had to leave because I was never there. Each hour in paper trays waiting for its ink. The line at the angle where the floor meets the bed laughing incessantly. In brutal echoes of clothes no longer there.

And I sighed, it's as right as it is wrong. It's always a yellow light. That choice is constantly there. Speed up or slow down. We're always deciding.

Usually it's effortless. But sometimes it lingers.

Shadows in the corridor that forget to follow them when they leave. Footsteps sing their chorus as the lock slides into place.

It's not a sad song. It was just too brief.

Turnstyles in the heart decorated with the fingerprints of passersby. A careless mosaic stolen from life's smallest pieces.