Like a tea cup with beautiful designs,
Bought from an obscure second hand shop,
Where you found her on a shelf, 
You are reminded to look at all the little
Things that define your clutter.

The books whose protagonists
Walk like phantoms as I pass the bookshelf,
Old albums that still awaken love stories,
And old editions of playboys,
That transform the love stories
Into racy fantasies

And what made you who you are
Is defined by your collections,
The things you bought for a price,
Or those given to you in gift,
Like the endless birthday cards
That chronicle your historical significance
Through the eyes of others.

And I’m that lover-to-be, lover or the ex
That she didn’t see as keep-worthy
And that clutter is just the currency of nostalgia
That spells out moments,
That spring from the ledge of my eyes,
Narrations of what was priced,
And what was priceless

And clutter is my Achilles heel.
Those messy collections of mileposts
That just like that cup of tea was meant to enter my life
And perhaps exit, still leaving behind
A little quandary of sorts,
What if that person, like the tea cup,
Had staying power?

And you find love everywhere
The biggest kind of clutter there is,
When you look at all the little things
That accentuate love. What reminds you that you were
Once kept company, by a present-day ghost
That at that point in time.

Just happened to be,
Your only collectible of worth.

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