I keep collecting pieces of you.  Everywhere.   (Where is just a matter of time, a matter of circumstance, a matter of remembering.)  Some days finding you is a happy thing, on most days I wish I could just… wander away.  Forget.  Deny the collection.  

But I always keep them under careful lock and key — in an inconspicuous box beside my mug of pencils and my cups of coffee.   Sometimes I lay them out piece by piece, organizing and reorganizing them until I get some semblance of wholeness.  Until I’ve rearranged the story into one that’s believable and present and good, but only always fleetingly so.