Page XV

Buttons & Bobby Pins

Halfway through a year of magical thinking; at retrograde, my piquant receptors appear more besotted than ever. Short of being someone entirely different, perplexity of what is expected of me hemorrhages from mind. Circuitous but not entirely implausible, it is apparent to me that I do not hibernate alone.

Knee-deep within the personal estate of a bankrupted inheritance; I am the desolate keeper. Abandoned commodities play the role of secluded possessions; the mine, the yours, the ours. Dismally, this tragic cast performs upon a stage of invoked sadness; and never falls short of what kerosene and a match could remedy. Although I do embrace dearly, I would barter it all to erase the thought of losing you; even if for just one precious moment.

The more I empty this apartment, the more it resembles our first day of arrival. Upon a fresh homecoming, armfuls of sunlight eagerly anticipated the twain bright-eyed and kindled enthusiasts. It must have all been for the moment, for I could accuse anamnesis for being a devastating punishment; or perhaps I have mistaken the pain for longing. Regardless, the composition of memories is at harsh fault, even for significances you wish to never be forgotten.

Metal, wood, cloth and glass; is that all that remains to stow? The carousel ticks a notch to the left upon the mummification of another object; exposing light through the next transparent memory. No, I suppose a camera cannot be engineered for these sort of things. Nevertheless if the jewel of reminiscence is sought, inherent influence and affectability may be of some caliber.

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