You are what, a hundred miles away?
Yet you're stored
And stretched on threads
From a core
In a drawer of fabric pens and watch straps
Cassette players and battery packs
And all the scraps you can't throw out
Because memory made them far too bright
And full of perfect promise
Everything you tried to write
Curled up in a plastic box of gifts
All the things you can't throw out
You can't condemn them to transience
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