Scattered books, papers, thoughts, scattered ideas
that I held.
Maybe I don’t want you to forget about me,
or maybe
I don’t want to forget those things myself.
There’s so much of me inside those things;
within you.
Those parts of me remind who I am
and I could hardly reassemble it all,
I could never see all of myself.
You keep something of me with you,
showing it back when we meet.
I could never see all of myself,
yet stumbling on something
I left in your house,
I see that’s what I was.
February 24
No comments:
Post a Comment