I used to fill book after book
of words I'd written
mostly about you.
I kept them on a shelf,
moved them from house to house,
ensuring you were always there with me.
I don't have even one
with me anymore.
They're on a shelf somewhere,
this I know...
perhaps in a box in a basement.
And somehow I'm just fine.
The more I move around,
the more of the world I see,
the less I feel the need
to be tethered to you...
forever tied
by memory after memory.
Forever tethered.
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