there's a dime on my bedroom floor
from the day i moved in
over a year ago, now
my broom bristles always conveniently
missing its ridged and silver edge
i guess i love the way its perpetual glint
reminds me of beginnings
and the black dress i wore
to my great-grandmother's funeral
its formality and pleating made me
feel mature and important
in fact, it's still hanging in my closet
hoping for a happier occasion
maybe even a celebration
but i'll never wear it again
come to think of it, i've never
been that good at letting go
like my scratched up cds from so many days
spent gliding around on hardwood in baby pink
ballerina tights while playing barbie dolls
dreaming about what it might be like
to love someone someday
my favorite one stayed in the dented player
until the day i moved away
there is ripped paper in a folder
from failed scrapbook attempts
that usually ended in poorly cut photographs
taken from the photo box in the basement
where mom kept the grainy originals
of all our childhood memories
captured on some ancient kodak
yes, come to think of it
i've never really been that
good at letting go
but as time moves forward i find
less and less value in the tangible
i suppose i don't care for objects like
i did as a child
these days it's mostly burning words
held inside my throat
of all of the things i wanted to
but could never say
and yesterday's breath in my lungs
because i hold that too tight, too
and people -- no,
the idea of people
frozen, remembering the exact moment
they became the sun i revolved around
and now they show up in nostalgic dreams,
evergreen never aging, never changing
inside my brain everything stays the same
and i end up longing for a time
i probably over romanticized anyway
no, i've never really been
good at letting go
i’ve always held on to what i know
but lessons learned come with time.
here’s mine:
letting go is the hardest part,
but it’s a start.
