To work on letting go of items, not people
Is an exercise in thoughtful deliberation
We value people but possessions are so comforting
In a strangely satisfactory way.
Constant review and edit
Like a book that will never publish,
We continue to sort, and sort, and sort again;
To trash, to donate, to give away.
“Maybe I will use this tomorrow
Maybe I will use this never
I have never used this, but may-
Sometime very soon.”
A nest of intention, surrounded by degradation
What coulda, shoulda, woulda been
Potential wasted, rotted, decayed
A world lost to time and indecision.
He worries that without her
You will regress to this state
Of holding on to things
To block out the reality of your loss.
In the damp and dark
Rust and decay
All the pieces of the past
Simply pass away….