I’m a Collector of Things

I’m a collector of things.

Little trinkets, profound sayings,

beautiful words and pretty sunsets.

I collect them all.

One by one, I take back grains of sand

Store them in a little casket back home.

I pick dried leaves from the streets

and hide them among the pages of my diary.

Diaries.

I have lots of them. Leather bound, brown and black.

Some filled with doodles, others completely blank.

I don’t just collect physical memorabilia.

I also collect sighs and laughs.

Tears make for a good collection, I have barrels filled with those.

One clumsy push and they would fill the seven seas and beyond,

spill out of the planet if gravity wasn’t so stubborn.

I protect these barrels like the pebbles in my satchel,

the satchel i clutch close to my chest.

Fear of losing, fear of forgetting

A fear of never returning.

Maybe someday I will leave the satchel on the pavement

And walk back without a care.

Maybe someday I’ll tip the barrels,

watch them roll around with the water spilling out.

Nothing left, nothing found,

empty diaries, empty caskets.

A faint fingerprint somewhere in the sand,

a fading memory, a waving hand.