At the Chime of a City Clock

I can hear the closing of the day.

There’s an abundance of memoirs –
fallen words inside my coffee cup,
unlit, unscented candles,
the red postbox at the end of the street,
and knots in my hair, golden and burnt
each with a story to relay.

The windows are closed,
one by one,
in steady clockwork motion.

And then there are memories –
two empty wine glasses,
the fat, white cat and sunlight on its fur,
records of shared music collected,
the first telephone,
each with a tale to hide.

After the windows are closed,
the lockers are opened,
ready to be loaded.

It is all nothing but a museum of moments –
a park bench surrounded by lavender trees,
intertwined fingers at sunrise,
sharing of silence and a giant open space,
and even foreign fjords glinting in moonlight,
each with a fingerprint that cannot be erased.

All of them are packed away.

I hear the lockers being shut,
the clicking of the little doors.

The lights are then turned off,
and someone shuffles out,
sealing the door of my heart.

At the chime of a city clock,
I can still hear the closing of the day.

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