"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I wander through this cold shell that used to be a box of memories.
Now only a space, full of the mist of past things.
The rooms seem to dribble shadow, as if in mourning,
a veil of loss as the building exhales in its emptiness.
A flimsy layer of dust begins to ooze through the liminal expanse.
This place between things. Not outside, but no longer an inside.
A home now in a twilight as its beating heart has left.
A skeleton of something that was.