This.
A lipstick-stained envelope
Mailed to your front door.
A collection of sonnets
Written on thin paper.
This.
An old map hanging by the corners
Fraying at the edges
Guiding you to here
And there.
This.
A lantern blossoming in flames
Untouched by the mortal eye
And unloved by the iridescent wings.
This.
My collection.
My home.
My requiem.