A little poem still in progress, I think.

Again

After all these years
we’ll meet again.

The whole week before,
I remember
in glaring Polaroid flares,
faded and stained
around the edges.
Brittle little memories crack
and crumble,
disregarded leather covers
at the corners of this fiction,
leave flakes to sift
through fingers
and settle in the floorboards.

Still, here you are--
standing on the stoop,
reaching for the bell.

-HMMooreNiver