Intruding on a Memory

It feels strangely intimate,

standing in the place where someone's life changed.

Like I'm intruding on a memory,

looking through invisible glass overhead 

foggy figures at the center of my imagination.

And of course, I have no recollection of what happened here.

No memory to attach to these beams,

no story I can claim as my own.

But places hold on.

They remember things in ways we never could,

quietly carrying the weight of what happened here,

long after we've forgotten how to.