• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
Image by

It was not mine

No, that’s not mine,
she said, and brushed by, scant glance
or worse, without any remembrance I knew
was there.
I turned to call, but she was now
engaged with someone else, about what I
could not tell. At least broken hearts are
still present.
So, I sat, with thoughts
of nothing, which span
around my head, till I
looked again.
That key, the key, what key
is it I wish to waste on any
who’d rather lock than open?
I turned, and when I turned it fell
through the air, through my outstretched hand,
through the floor.
There was no key, there was
no claim.
It was not mine.