My problem is that I collect
little pieces of everyone I meet.
I collect their stories and their
good times and their bad times and
that blush that creeps onto their cheeks when
they’re embarrassed.
I stow away their candid smiles and
their laughs that are almost too loud and
the way they sound when they say
my name.
I lock away all the times they’ve
held my hand or brushed my shower and
all the good mornings and goodnights and
every breath in-between.
And then
they’re gone and
I’m stuck holding hands with ghosts and
reliving stories like they were mine to tell in the
first place.
I’m left with words and stolen photographs and
far more I miss you’s than I know
what to do with.
About the Creator
Abby Slyter
Small-town writer who loves reading and writing words that make people feel. Continually surrounded by books, Broadway, and my dogs. Spreading love through poetry and short memoirs, glimpses into the array of moments in my life.
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