Seconds pass.

Minutes, hours...

and the door stays closed.

Music off, lights off, door closed.

Dreams stay locked in dust covered notebooks, waiting to be read.

Memories of a life lived told by papers and CDs scattered on the floor,

their words silently frozen,

and a bed left unmade.

Shoes left laying on the floor by the hurry of the clock-

not set stuck at 7:23.

And that doll.

That doll was the last thing to ever feel the love.

It was wrapped in her arms one last time before she left that day.

Sometimes I want to hold that doll

to see if the soul of her life is still around.

But going past the closed door is a reminder of what life was

the silent clock is more than enough.

And still, the door stays closed.