You used to believe in dragons, when you were young. Used to make them come to life. After midnight, silent keyboard tapping built entire worlds.
Up the stairs of your own building where they also always lived. Almost shaking grabbing keys, unlocking doors and switching lights on. Attic smells as you puzzle boxes out of way, in the corner, dark and barely lit. You grab the right one. You sit. Leaning against dusty walls. Get comfortable.
With almost reverence you untie strings holding cardboard closed. Not opened since, since you were there, with them. With your hands, carefully flattening, every yellowed piece of paper.
You read. Some out loud. You know them. Never really forgot. Some read walking back and forth. Some softly sung. Some tugging on old scars. Some naively loving in a way you wish you could. Some screaming to be loved in a way they didn’t know they would.
You hold them to you. Wipe tears, old and new. The worlds you built once. Undeserving. You’ll take them with you.
You used to believe in dragons. Now you believe in you.