another man’s junk is another man’s…

dancing in the dark, piles of bobby pins scatter the depths of my drawers; unseen,

hoarded and grimy from yesteryear’s hairspray.

no longer do i twirl to the crescendos of classical music; nor does my scalp

long for their stabbing pins.

but still, i hold onto them.

“does this spark joy?”

Kondo asks,

and like the shrivelled paint tube, hollow cider bottle,

ungrazed fan pin and parched perfume vial – they don’t.

but still i hold onto them.

her upturned eyes, rosy cheeks and scarlet lips

have become sights i rarely see;

but the second her chalk-white geisha face reaches my lids—

i’m ten again:

fingers deep through my popo’s antiques;

face white with chinese cosmetics, all while a table

of freshly fried eggs and malty hot milo sets steam.

a pile of dried petals:

a reminder of the rushing sea,

chilly nights by the grass and a kiss on the cheek.

crimson reds, canary yellows, russian blues and sea greens:

my faded army of rainbow pastels

lie soundlessly asleep;

awaiting the call of battle,

to draw their swords on blank sheets.

most years they’re given a second to breathe;

a look, a glance, a tender grip.

then shuffled into piles of in-betweens,

limboing between twilight and another spring clean.

I’m what you call a hoarder;

the anxiously attached and a lost cause

in the eyes of a minimalist.

but to me,

inching cogs in an ever-evolving machine;

tiny etchings of jigsaw pieces in a numberless puzzle

bigger than you and me.

I am clueless to the big reveal of it all,

and never will I see the finished masterpiece. but

till

my

last

breath

they will always be:

tangible memories

of dreams I once had;

lives I so ached to live.

crutches every birthday eve,

hiding my limp,

masking the fear of losing sense of my entire being,

and my own identity from

engulfing me.

so I hold on dearly,

never letting them slip;

always beneath the grips of my fingerprints.