My husband looks at me in confusion;
he doesn't understand why I seem to distrust him so.
I'd let my husband speak for himself
but he'd only turn this into a first-person shooting game.
And there's hardly much narrative to one of those;
just point, shoot and run away before the same happens to you.
That's hardly as poignant.
I get up off the sofa depressed with memories
and take another look up in the loft.
I know that it can't be there, I've looked before.
But childish hope overrules everything else.
There are boxes of dust and dirt
that stick to me and cover me in the past.
They're full of old memories
that I can't remember anymore
so I don't know why I keep them
but there's bound to be one day
when those memories will become significant.
I'm crawling
under the heavy beams that support the house
along a surface that isn't exactly all that stable
and I'm worried I'm going to fall
and I'm worried I'm going to fall
and there's something at the far end worth looking at
and I'm worried I'm going to fall
but there it is.
One last mystery box to have a look in.
and because it's always the last place you look
at the bottom of the box, there it is. There it is.
I leaf through the volume slowly;
the pages are ready to fall out
- maybe I read it too much as a child -
so I carefully retrieve it, retreat out of the loft
and I'm worried I'm going to fall
but don't think about it much because there it was. There it was.

The End

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