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seekingsunsetsPoems
Our souvenirs. In a little box I've stowed— a secluded veneer. A lot of times you bestowed The prettiest things. A deck of just kings, Lilac seeds. An anklet not a ring with rolled paper as beads. A painted sycamore tree and a carved partridge. A butterfly, unfree and a rusty London bridge. Many more, I have burnt A simple jewelry box, a medical syringe. A vintage, whimsical clock, ripped pages, a stockage. But this last one, I gave away It wasn't mine for a keepsake. The most special, an epilogue; crucial— the last smiling photograph of us. the last reeling scene of us. It was candid it was real. But look at what you've done. Look at how all these objects— merely flashes and ashes— are perpetually gone. Look at how you never talked about leaving but did anyway.
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Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
to keep or not, the things that leave
Our souvenirs. In a little box I've stowed— a secluded veneer. A lot of times you bestowed The prettiest things. A deck of just kings, Lilac seeds. An anklet not a ring with rolled paper as beads. A painted sycamore tree and a carved partridge. A butterfly, unfree and a rusty London bridge. Many more, I have burnt A simple jewelry box, a medical syringe. A vintage, whimsical clock, ripped pages, a stockage. But this last one, I gave away It wasn't mine for a keepsake. The most special, an epilogue; crucial— the last smiling photograph of us. the last reeling scene of us. It was candid it was real. But look at what you've done. Look at how all these objects— merely flashes and ashes— are perpetually gone. Look at how you never talked about leaving but did anyway.
#love#objects
seekingsunsets
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seekingsunsets
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
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