The Other Person

I am a collector
I have a tiny yellow box where all my priceless artifact lies
Where all the truths you told me are, even the lies

I am a collector
I pick at the tiniest affection, the tiniest care, the I love yous that are sometimes insincere
I pick at them, and I store them in the little box that’s hiding under my bed,
Not too far to reach, but far enough to make me work to get it

I am a collector
I have never owned anything.
Bits of your pieces are entwined with my frame
I finger it from time to time, reminding myself that I’m whole with you, and you can never leave becuse you never stayed
You aren’t aware that you’re the garments I wear
You aren’t aware that I’m the one at the end of your fishing line, chucking fishes out for you, and watching you dance at the catch
Then I capture you happy and keep your joy entrapped, to remind myself that light still shines
I capture your smile and save for the rainy days when the sun is shy

I am a collector.
I have a tiny yellow box where all I’m worth lies
Where all you do and don’t do, say and unsay
Where your opinions and inhibitions, your decisions and regrets, where You are kept.

I am a collector,
I’m nothing without my prize
I’m the box, you’re the items
I am a collector,
And you are what I’ve collected

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector’s passion borders on the chaos of memories.
– Walter Benjamin