sifting through her dresser drawer distracted
by the staccato hum of the pipes upstairs,
by the cat leaping, less gracefully than expected,
by the neighbour’s garage door cranking.
swallowing against my heart, I scuttle
across this tomb of forgotten socks, yellowing
shirts, buried past-treasures,
fearing to wake the grim dead–
finding a torn letter from a version of me
naive, more in love, present me grimacing
at my surety. Lingering on this for too long,
I admit defeat–
this is not what I excavated for.
A careful footstep,
and I cradle the drawer back, sealing it shut.
About the author:
Emma Fissenden is a screenwriter who dabbles in fiction and poetry. She is a British expat living in Canada, and her favourite season is Autumn. If you peeled back her skin, you would probably find a layer of red leaves.