ooof... those last few lines. This is no lighthearted poem Inna! But there's a muted, exquisitely painful beauty here, grave as faces in a vintage black and white photograph before people smiled for photos.

The sense of being on a journey... of moving back and forth through memory, revisiting what has in theory been left behind, but in reality remains present whether acknowledged or not. Documenting the little unseen tragedies that line the protagonist's life, and in doing so obliquely referencing the larger, overarching one until a picture of it begins to come clear, each little detail like a marvelously elegant antique.

A missed opportunity can be a wound that never heals. What possible cure could there be?

I love that this question remains mercilessly unanswered.