Behind the door. That’s where she is. Obscured but not forgotten. I recall her grin, consumed by a wit too large for such a small frame. To think, how that grin shall fade, in both time and memory.
Behind the door. The sounds come. a sickening volley of laughter and tearing. Imagine as I might, the picture’s less clear from over here. Her voice quit out long ago.
Behind the door. From which, the smells waft and wander. Under which, the redness blankets a once white light. Behind which, the match to my ring no longer waits.
Behind the door. They’ll take me soon.