The memory you recall,
seated on the stool in your bathroom:
Sitting on the second floor balcony, looking down at the shattered pews, down at the little curling stairs of the vestibule, down at the negative space once filled by a stripped down effigy, down at the ancient wooden banister, down at the floors torn open to the dirt below, down at your half-cracked hands.
Behind you, a gentle slope up. A circle of wood on the floor, mirroring the bare metal circle hanging from the vaulted ceiling above. Mottled light through tall windows ahead and beside.
You stood like a worm in that circle with a girl. Pathetic and whimpering, alone after dark.
Romantic.
A bomb hit this place.