Never wore a locket with a face smiling wide,
scrap books and diaries were just too easy
reach out and open it, senseless and dead
I wouldn't dare to smell the decomposing past,
on the pages after pages of tacky colorful papers.
pictures were taken once in a while,
just to see how things couldn't get anymore perfect
how there might never be a repeat,
no chance of duplication
and the next time I would look at it,
it could be in an imperfect moment
just far enough to be called past.
and how strange it was,
when I come to realize
that the less I asked for remembrance
and the less I collected, it was all the more.
I was remembering so out of control
randomly but constantly
sometimes bringing back sweet tastes,
smells were the best, in the middle of that kitchen
the dry air and mustard yellow tiles,
of the childhood house.
Then in the same random manner
it turned into those hurtful ones.
How I didn't asked for it all,
whatever was done, what was not done
it had to become a melancholy of a passive mind
a vintage piece,
insisting on its cruel existence.