So I'm sitting here,
in this little frame,
of a door,
a special door, glittering yet hollow,
empty,
yet I return, just like a fly to a light bulb,
so shiny, so bright,
waiting for him to come out.
Waiting...
And waiting some more...
Wondering, weeping, wanting,
with no answer, no happy ending,
in this little apartment I sit.
Many doors along this hall,
that will never end,
doors opening and closing,
opening and closing,
but in all these opportunities, these new apartments,
I see nothing,
nothing but this special door.
So I try again,
I've lost count of how many times I've tried,
and I stand up, knock,
and this teasing door is unlocked, I enter,
only to find unopened letters on the floor,
I try to step in,
and I fall again,
fall too far down,
forgetting that there is a small step,
and my knee bleeds,
another scar, another wound,
I retreat, finding no one home,
he's not there to heal me,
and that's all I want,
to be healed.
To the frame I go,
closing that special door,
Waiting...
And waiting some more...
The sun sets,
and it rises again,
and I am still waiting,
i see new faces, neighbors passing by,
offering me drinks, lunches,
and all denied,
Why?
All because of this door,
this special mysterious glittering door,
and the boy that might just walk out,
and heal me.
But I've been waiting for so long,
the pictures in this apartment disappearing,
letters piled to the infinite skies of the galaxy,
tears spent over an empty hollow promise,
over a door,
and over a step that I have tripped on so many times,
and this heart is tired of waiting,
tired of bleeding,
and an earthquake has shaken this apartment,
this special door,
and all images,
all memories,
turn into dust.
And I'm sitting here,
under the frame of this door,
this, oh, so special door,
having survived many falls,
and having realized,
this door was closed a long time ago,
and this tenant,
a boy not to be blamed,
has left.
This door has been repainted,
this apartment refurnished,
this frame no longer needed,
to save me from another earthquake,
and as I get up,
I drop a picture,
one last memory,
because it belongs here,
at this special door,
a piece of me,
left here,
at this door,
this special door,
which all of a sudden,
no longer seems,
well,
special.
