There had been many visits to this room
In my mind.
From yous of the past
I see especially you, mother
Like sticky honey on the floor of memory
Taking with it all that is in me
To that place I was at some point before
That I can never leave
No matter how much of it I cannot even remember
The honey though
Is there
To keep things sticky
and dirty
with the honey
in rows upon rows or tiny dots of dirt
to keep things dirty and stuck in place
But you, yes you, I loved you, you know.
In a sense I will never admit to myself
That love i will struggle ever to admit to you
