Little Things//
~Somedays as an ode, other days
a forgotten Shakespeare's sonnet.
Somedays you are a bracelet
tucked with the stationaries.
I see you piling up inside me.
Little by little.— % &Dust accumulates here now.
My body feels too numb to clean it.
What if dust, too, holds memories
and cleaning them would lead to
losing them?
Each day some dust gets collected
on my fingertips, and when I press
my fingers on the white shirt,
imprints of the day get carved on it.
Will I miss those little moments?— % &
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