We Are Our Collection of Things

A space, a crevasse, between desire and reasoning

The pressure had confines, clear lines

When you box up the memories that will eventually decompose into stories you'll one day share

With reverance?

Fondly?

The remaining bite marks and grazes of lip

Still stain subterraneously

How often they push and displace to the surface

I couldn't see you coming

And now, I worry the refrain of your kiss may wash off

How many words does it take to articulate heartbreak?

It would seem infinite, and I could go on and on and on

What allowances provides the unfathomable heaviness of neglect?

How much do I owe and to whom for housing these details?