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.