The days come and go.
Sometimes I am even lost in them.
But comfort is old storybooks, warm blankets and tea,
photographs of a life lived long gone.
Memories locked away
like pressed flowers,
devoid of scent,
collecting dust between the pages
of long-forgotten notebooks.
How funny it is —
to spend so much time looking forward
only to turn too late
and face a thicket of trees
with no way back.