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Are they just pieces cluttered around?
The letters in the box, the dried roses
in one of the pages of my favorite books.
They all seem, are going along with me
like waves unknowingly push the detritus
into the bed shore and bring them back
again to the bosom of the ocean..
There, they float unnamed, untagged
Rain comes, shatters their wraps
Storm tears them apart, exposed
I lift every meaning of them,
cry every dent of pain,
fix every chip of attachment.
I rather, them be placed in the corner
where no one dares to visit and shove them
away to the farthest part of my drawer
and labeled, ''not significant."
When their paces keep me up
as fast as I want to escape,
as slow as the time ticks to leave them behind..
When the red ribbon that binds them, peeks
through the whiteness of forgetting..
And here I am tracing back
what these remembrances have to say,
spreading on the table of choices,
to dwell or to let go
This, I am yet to consider...