there's melacholy in his smile
as he stops just outside the door,
his hand, still, on the ornate pull--
polished where the world reaches out;
dull, diminished, forgotten, soil'd
in the spots we tend to avoid
because it's inconvenient or
because it is not as attractive--
as appealing or alluring
as the wear that makes us normal.
--we adore each other's polish,
ignoring the filth that makes us

unique.

there's melancholy in his smile.