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I hold on to pain.
that I find on the streets.
It litters the ground,
broken shards of glass,
forgotten matchbooks,
the occasional forgotten book
that has become fat with rain.
I gather these up,
clutch them to my chest.
The shards of glass,
like so many small diamonds,
cut the palms of my hands.
The matchbooks contain memories,
misspent evenings spent in bars,
the darkness unable to hide the joy
or the heady dance of anticipation.
The books contain stories.
After they have dried out,
the pages are rippled like waves.
I run my finger along the lines,
letting it dip into the water
of the stories being told.
I hold on to the pain
that I find on the streets
but I have to let it go.
My home has become filled
with matchbooks, shards of glass,
bloated books filled with stories,
lost shoes that never completed
their lonely journey home,
a lone necklace made of pearls
that have long ago lost their shine.
I gather these things up,
the shards of glass cutting my hands,
and I relish the pain
for one more moment,
a reminder that I am alive,
that I am breathing.
I go outside
and stand underneath the stars.
I make a wish
for each lost item,
and when the wish is done,
I let it go
so that it can float
up to the sky.
When all that is left
are the shards of glass,
I gather all of them up
into the palms of my hands
and blow as if I am
making a wish.
I watch as the glass
joins the stars,
finding empty spots
amongst the darkness.
The sky shines brighter tonight.
I stand underneath the stars
and I let my pain go,
so that it can find the light
within the darkness.