We hide what we don't want to see
in the other memories, in the light
crossing the room, the dust in the air.
Trivial details that we cling to,
the nurse who cried while she waited,
all behind the noise of the world outside.
There was no room for this,
no-one who knew what to say.
You think it will pass with time.
It doesn’t. Nobody tells you that either.
That collection of moments recurring,
the image of the dust in the air. In the space,
the silence, adding a layer of recollection.