The Door

A rosewood photo frame, carefully placed on the cabinet amidst the brass figurines, lit candles, lavender oil and musk ambrette, dried rose petals, and tree leaves in red and green and brown and yellow. Smokeless tea incense, an hour glass, a cup of black coffee and a rocking chair.

I am not waiting for you, I am not waiting for anybody. I am not waiting, I just am.

The photo frame is empty, because everytime it ends where it begins, because things are not supposed to make sense, because understanding is illusive, because what we think is one wholesome long story is but a hundred little unrelated happenings; a hundred different days where we sleep, and awaken, and each previous day becomes a faint echo of a dream.

And I keep on rocking in my chair back and forth.

I will give you space to come and go, because you're ever changing, because I'm never definite, and because we're all; all things in every way.

I will never blame you for things, because everything just is. I will never ask you to explain, because I prefer my endings open. I will never ask you where you came from or where you're going next as long as you step in quietly, and step out just as quietly leaving me uninterrupted and my photo frame empty and untouched.

And I keep on rocking in my chair back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth.