Image credit: Victor Bezrukov

In the end she holds onto nothing very long.
Reaching adolescence, she gave away porcelain dolls,
followed by memories of her father
and his useless gifts hardly used:
the music box encrusted with dirt
the Mardi Gras beads he carelessly placed in her hands.

Cleaning,
she discards the pennies with the trash
to unite with half-used pens
tri-colored highlighters
and mites eating at dust particles.
All in an effort to detach and de-clutter.

She never replaces old worn shoes
or jeans riddled with holes.
She can’t hold onto the brick-a-brak,
those Precious Moments
staring at her from shelves
her grandmother gifts her.

All she holds onto are words
etched in journals,
sentiments housed in cards
and scattered music files connecting her to…
now gone.

Like the men she sets loose with masked ease
in need to hold no attachment.
The absence of companionship
more comfortable
than cluttered connections.