Why do we have to look at the past like glass windows?
Why can’t we live out the last day of all the best summers we’ve had?
Why do we have to look at everything we’ve felt and known like fish inside a glass case?
Everytime try to feel anything feels like digging it up,
Why do we have to feel the soil in between our fingers
We could have thought of it like rooms with doors
and you twist the key to the lock and it opens
Why does memory feel like a grave?