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Prologue ~

I approach the door I see in my dreams. The shifting dreams I've had for the past few nights. Sometimes its the same door, sometimes it's new. So each night, I focus and describe it in this journal The door, so that one night I can choose.

The Golden Door

Walking towards this door is like waking up on the first day of summer. I can feel the heat escaping, like sidewalks and grass clippings. Its morning as you touch the door frame. Intricate vine designs pour across the ligaments of its frame.

The gentle pulse, like the heartbeat of the wind, cool ~ dandelions puffs sailing into the afternoon heat.

Laughter. So sweet and innocent I almost instinctively grab the door handle and twist, but thats when I see the door handle.

Gnarled and dark, spent. Examining the opener I see faces. Faces that have been twisted and turned so many times the bodies are indistinguishable against each other.

A throne of faces wound into the intricate turner.

Macob and beautiful, youth forever locked in a dance


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words are weapons. through rosy lips, venomous through pens, backstabbing through dance, words are subtle transformed a line a glance motion becomes – statement that cries “get away and softly states “please, please stay


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When the door closed I felt the wind roll out The small world we'd cultivated burn Its ashes, not even fine enough to hold

That's not what I want to remember I want to remember the winter Wrapped tightly under a blanket To see your face smiling To watch sparks play across your eyes To be there again

Walking hasn't felt the same since that day Coming home to no one Sitting drinking coffee with no one

But the sun, is getting stronger the wind has started to rise

I hope I will too


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The journeys end like a sidewalks path

The flowing water falling sharply down broken glass

The way two lovers speak each word tumbles past

A reminder That even when the die is cast

The moment fades The endless thoughts get off parade

That you were there That I was too

That for a lifetime

Or maybe just a dot

Things were How they could be.

not. how they were. not


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I stole a word once

Didn't know I had until in my heart in my heart, her whisper a soft plea for release

the yearning bleats of her cries had at the time made me turn inside to see the captured component in pandora's new box

I felt it so deep me sitting with a lighting bolt or a butterfly wing like id capturing a ring of water held onto the intangible

and she stays with me even to this day

endless chatter, sadness, depression colder now and nothing she speaks matters

the word is mine my precious possession


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The connections we build. With the places we live The places we work

Mine are no different I realize As my eyebrow raise

The nervous system, of dust tattered books and creaky tarnished flooring alerted my gut that she

She was here My wait over

I could see her fingers wrap around the present id left her

Again I felt her settle to the floor

Then I slowly stood, taking care to lay my own book down I would sneak this time and so I did winding like a python through the underbrush of literary volumes flowing until I could hear her hum

Standing there, opposite a mirror her bookshelf between us I knew this might be my last chance

I let my vision fall, one shelf at a time until at last i saw the book held in front of her Her chestnut hair flowing down onto frail shoulders Her humming slight and sad The sound of a pages turning hungrily

“Excuse me” I began, but the book she read dropped A turquoise shimmer of her skin as my eyes met a cerulean blue it felt like a bubble popped

One moment there, the next, she was not


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I walk to her section I can visualize her here sitting cross legged, reading not paying me any mind

taking the book from my bag a smile reaches the near corners of my eyes as I place this book onto the shelf

rough leather, tattered and sun beaten an ancient hand bound volume sitting precarious in her section

then I walk back to my purch open a used college edition of “the stranger” by Camus and wait


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Every day I see her As I sit perched behind this register

My eyes lazily reading whatever book article, paper or really anything with writing on it

id read a guide about remotes if we had remote book guides in this bookstore but thankfully we don't

chuckling to myself

we do have, however a very very large collection of used, slightly abused books

responsibly priced and haphazardly stocked and that has made this mystery quite the juicy plot

Every day I see her, as I look out more than a child, less than an adult She moves the door in such a way The bell doesn't even ring off

I pretend that I don't see her That I don't watch as she glides through the masses of unshelved books

That I don't see her go to a very specific spot and like a bird who's feathers have been more than often plucked she finds the barren section, her section and stops

I see her stand still, fingers gliding over the few books there till I feel her choose a book then I hear the floor groan as she sits I hear the gentle turning of pages sometimes even a slight hum

I move my eyes back to my literature then wait,

sometimes it's a hour sometimes its several more but eventually i'll feel her presence lapse

a flame suddenly smothered, gone

I never see her leave, but I do notice the unsettled dust from the book she's just stolen


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a shot flew from my pens body ejaculating soggy paper blazing towards it target hitting, she – my target, squealed like a pig slapped on the rump falling back into the bus seat confident of my stealth I took a breathe then giggled

that was until

my older sister walked over eyes boring into mine

so scared, that I never saw the fist until I had fallen over my jaw a little looser


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I had eaten the apple in the basket before I left for school when I got home it sat there angry and alone

It spoke to me that day about the indignation and right before I could answer the apple exploded into vapor


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