Was there a door I left open?
Because I don’t remember inviting you in.
Not sure how I want to greet you,
You’ve left a golden hue upon the world,
Yet jealousy and doubt upon my white sleeves.

But maybe I’m the one with broken mirror,
And the chinks in my armor are self-inflicted wounds.
Friday night after dinner or early Sunday morning,
I suppose, you don’t care when, but how
You invade the peaceful valley of my thoughts.

Thought I had left all of your scraps behind,
And put in my pockets, only the most desirable pieces.
But your memory, a burning effigy, is still visible.
When you come in, please sit across from me.
The humble desk will mediate our laughs and tears.

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