My memory is full to the brim
With the boy who lived in the building next to mine,
My only childhood-friend.
He would creep up to me like a single window
And warm my loneliness.

Together we would embark upon the floor of the room
He would spread out his stories before me
Of colored butterflies
And the ghosts in the wall
And in the evenings
He would sing to me of a china spoon
And a cow that lived in the trees.

His bags were never empty of games
-some of them not so innocent-
Which we stored as little secrets
On the deserted stairwell
Hoping its steps would not reveal our dreams.

One day he left
To play the game,
Leaving behind his coat of childhood.
I preserved it in formaldehyde
To look at it through a glass barrier
Wherever my memory overflows
With my only window.

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