A rusty old box of random things,
— concert tickets and old photographs.
Of tears and laughter
— Handwritten letters
Of friendships and heartbreaks
On aging yellow paper
Slowly fading, ceasing to exist.
One touch of a dry wilted rose
— as though a thorn pricked my vein;
The memory of its scent lingers
Never leaving but never coming back
Like the people in the letters
And the faces in the photographs.
– d.h.
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