I still don't quite understand how,
the door shuts.

Perhaps the human heart has only so much room for things.

Perhaps it has a breaking point, boundaries and moats and limits.

This heart might have many walls and no windows.

It may have towers and turrets and forests to hide in, walk through.

The doors to this heart may not be clean and straight.

They may be craggy and weathered, keyless and dark.

But there may be curtains too, in this heart.

Curtains that let some light pass, curtains that can be ruffled with a breeze,
a breath.

Velvet curtains with cords for raising and for lowering,
made for marking the beginnings and endings of stories
told there on the heart's stage.

There may be slides and rafts and great plains and endless expanses where
the forgotten things roam;
where the forgotten ones go.

And the heart may receive visitors every so often.

Visitors who sit and are still and who are warm and familiar and who belong.

Visitors who roam and stalk the stage and the plains, who dare adventure there,
and who go to places that you had not dared to go
visit;
inside your own heart.

Some must be shown the exit,

the door,

the curtain.

But perhaps these visitors cannot leave once they enter.
Perhaps new divides are made to hem them in,
to keep them safe;

to keep us safe from them.

Perhaps they huddle there close together in the great seabreeze that blows through this
heart's ocean, on tiny boats or on this heart's ferry which travels between the many places a
heart holds.

Like the great white ferry we took.
To come here.
To find you.
To find out what was in your heart all of these years.