When I approach her my knees are weak and my heart trembles. When I leave her behind in the last room it feels like I’m stabbing my own heart and feel like I’ve lost you. Every time we reunite I can’t help but hold on to your hand as if it was my infusion. I get dazed by the complicated paintings on the ceiling, but I could get completely lost in your eyes. Your pace is a bare moderate version of mine, and I thought we would always catch up. But now I’m standing here staring into the crowded room behind me. I swear you were there. I know you were. I stood there and waited. I stood there and tried to find you. The paintings can be breathtaking and the museum could be made of gold. But you were a collectors item, a special edition fineprint. But you were limited, and now you’re gone.
Published by Josephine
Semi-personal blog. Dutch and English poetry and stories that document my life. Sincerely believes in writing as a form of therapy. View all posts by Josephine