Childhood is a loss that I mourn still.
The lack of overthinking and worrying.
I was convinced that disappearances would never occur.
I thought everybody was forever factual, their presence certain.
I expected their faces, their jokes, their wording and gestures
In every room that we lived in.
I relied on them staying.
I shoved the end towards the ending.
Forgot about it.
I felt reassured that it was an impossibility.
I thought I knew the content of each head and body.
And I lived alongside the people I loved
Thinking that nothing would ever go wrong.
I trusted renewals, believed in repetitions.
Childhood is a memory that cannot hold still.
Everything is fleeting and I’d never have realised it.
It could have gone on and on in my mind.
I walk into the deserted rooms without names, without sounds,
All vanished, sold and repopulated, through memory,
I imagine what I lost, what I had and loved so passionately,
I evoke the voices, the missing pieces, the looks and laughter,
The non-existent bodies that were so close to mine,
The scent, the whiff of touch, of reminiscence, remembrance, love laying still,
All I have are distorted time travels in my imagination,
Memories holding on to a thread in a treasure box.