Déjà vu

Something about this picture strikes me as completely familiar
this is a seat I've sat at
and that is a cloisonne bowl I've held- I've touched the cold ridges with the pads of my fingers
held it to my cheek
it smells of old wood & unfinished copper
a bit caustic
with a mellow finish
there is the weight of the brass candlestick
against the heat of spilled wax
that adheres to the back of my wrist
a quick burn, and then skin forms
I've sat alone
and heard music played back to me
disembodied
it is a music which loves everyone- and embraces especially me
I can't put my finger on the location, or the moment, or the memory,
but I know I've been here.