The one I use for bric-a-brac:
Loose batteries, old keys, and more.
You were in the very back,
With things from long-forgotten days --
Scribbles, on a napkin? Why?
A poem I wrote once, in a haze.
Some dreams, I think, do best to die.
Small pieces of our older lives
that mattered, once upon a time;
the fantasy that lingers, thrives;
false memories, a siren's chime.
We know all this, and yet we hold
these pieces that we cannot use
around us, lest our world grow cold,
for false hope when our egos bruise.
An old love tucked away for me
a kiss inside a pocket's crease --
I have it still. I leave it be.
That old coat doesn't fit. Caprice.
We all have our kitchen drawers,
with memories of days gone by.
You're in mine, and I'm in yours.
It's easier than saying goodbye.
