For lack of betters terms,
I am a hoarder,
a hoarder of memories.
The shoe box in the top left corner of my closet
is a treasury.
Each thing it contains
has its own story.
I pull them out one by one,
and soon enough they surround me in all of their glory.
Today, I pulled the box from its shelf
and came across your letter,
and I should have known better
but I slipped it out of the envelope
and read the words you wrote.
As tears cascaded down my face,
I wondered if you ever look down on me from high up in the airspace.
YOU ARE READING
Habits of the Heart
Poetry𝓜y words are the equivalent of a rose petal spiraling down the Grand Canyon, and you are it's echo.
