He would always wear my ring- giving me his full attention; he would lay there- with me, he listened to the music. He listened to our songs.
And she carries my pouch, the one I made for her coins. She carries my artwork- a piece of my mind, my imagination- one of which that even escapes my own memory- I know she carried it, Wherever she went.
And with a silent , namelless love, He uses my bookmark. The one I made for him. I know, at every ending, to every story- It's there.
A simple ring, a coin purse, a bookmark; like the unity of a song we all listen to at once- were pushed together, bound by memory, and immortalized in such fleeting feelings.
Isn't It Strange? That within these three mundane objects I take solice.
austins ring bronwens pouch and spencers bookmark.