A Poem For Those Find It Hard To Let Go

The papers you poke at are not,

In fact,

A disorganized pile,

But a telescope where I can look for miles back to the things I may have missed when I mattered more was less dismissed.

And that broken teapot is not,

In fact,

Random tat,

But it takes me back to my first flat with my only love when we laughed and laughed,

My teapot memory life raft.

And the fridge magnets and knickknacks there are not,

In fact,

Random clutter,

But memories that unfurl and flutter if I were to hold them in my hand,

Like lost treasure dug from within the sand.

The piles of books in every corner are not,

In fact,

A random selection,

But a faithful rudder aiding my direction,

Their words coordinates to steer me on if I just had time to open one.

All this that you say must go is not,

In fact,

What's at stake,

But like a boat creates awake the consequence of my truth within that I'm afraid that I can't swim.