i found serendipity in old things
my things, your things, our things.

the boxes stacked up to the roof were left ajar
tape couldn’t contain those things.

trails made way out of my room
there wasn’t enough space for all my things.

insomnia laid next to me in bed when
even my dreams were smothered by those things.

at first, this was a hobby
a way to keep the most important things.

then it became an obsession
and everything became “important things.”

the saudade for a woman’s touch
created my disinterest in those things.

holding on filled a lacuna in your absence
i buried human intimacy underneath things.