dated: a draft since August 2014; published and revised April 2015.

no list of a personal
inventory, belongings;
whatnots, not mine to keep

leaving is not what it seems:
too many things to carry, to hold dear
with luggages that trudge along sideways;
boxes that can never seem to be filled up,
with the love of nostalgia and heydays.

what’s there to adore, to reminisce?
I wonder too. perhaps I have grown old,
starting to love stained things, dust-filled tin boxes

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