a windowless room with seventeen open doors

clamping meager hands
onto the piano bench
she trembled 
to standing, begging 
her feet to grant her 
just one meter forward.  

obliging her request, 
they trod 
to the nearly-closed oak panel. 
her spindly fingers 
coaxed the door 

open 
and she slipped 
through the crack. 
two meters, 
then her feet permitted yet another. 
"don't,"

a deep voice bellowed. 
at first a whisper, then audible, 
she rasped, 
"yesterday's gone." 

though even as she spoke 
claws etched 
moments alive 
on her mercurial helix 
- the curse 
of potent reminiscence. 

her feet brought her 
over the door jam 
onto the grassy lawn 
with "don't" 
a cadence in her wake. 

despite her words 
she knew 
their shared hours of sameness 
would never 
lose permanence.