I cleared the shelf at two a.m., said I was done with keeping things, Then an old train ticket fell between the cables and the strings. Just faded paper, folded twice, a date I barely recognize, Still I held it for a second like the room might come alive. I put it down, I pick it up, Like the choice could change the years. I know it's small, I know it's gone, Still I keep it here. It's my proof, somehow. Every crease says I was there. I keep the things I don't need now for the life they used to share. It's my proof, somehow. There's a key that fits no doorway and a wristband turning grey, A receipt from somewhere ordinary I can't bring myself to throw away. I don't remember every face, I don't remember every word, But touching something from that time makes losing it feel less absurd. I put it down, I pick it up, Like the choice could change the years. I know it's small, I know it's gone, Still I keep it here. It's my proof, somehow. Every crease says I was there. I keep the things I don't need now for the life they used to share. It's my proof, somehow. The less that I remember, the harder it is to let things go. I don't miss the paper— I miss the me it used to know.
