Undone

Past the silence,
past what has passed,

an ancient oak door.

Crowded thoughts
press against knarled wood,
hopes and hates
of a time before yesterday,
locked unsafely away.

I tremble
on the edge of remote remembrances,
wanting to probe the past
to account for the present.

But as my hand brushes the handle,
I feel the weight of those forgotten voices
threaten to flood me
and I think

best not.

And with itching fingers,
I retreat back to a sunny day,
and the pleasure of pretending not to care.