she’s become a curator

tiny exhibits laid out with what was once great care

a fine layer of dust adorns them now

like the first snow of the season when the ground is just not quite frozen

she can barely remember the names

just a certain resonance from each diorama

here’s what’s his face

sneaking kisses under the bleachers between periods at school

this one is dedicated to the first in a long line of maybe this one is forever

a crush that never fully matured

him or the feelings

she walks slowly

hands gently touching in turn

the petty one

the cheater

the pregnancy scare

she calls this one houdini after his magical escape in the middle of the night

some she ghosted

an occasional lothario

too consumed by himself to ever see what slipped through his fingers

every now and then she opens the doors to her private collection

no more than faint scars that once seemed life threatening

she gives a personal tour

through this museum of love’s fickle refrains

each had a thundering crescendo

it’s own lilting harmony

but eventually faded from all consuming to distant whimsy

she’s strong like that

you wouldn’t have a clue

an inkling of tears shed

of ache and sorrow each had caused in their own superficial way

it’s an honor to walk along with her

to hear the fondly misremembered tales

each a thread in the tapestry of her life

a tiny sliver in the glorious cathedral of her love

makes you wonder what it would take to be part of the great collage

to seek to be adam gently touching fingers with her as a centerpiece

an impossible dream

just be content to be a visitor in this gallery of antiquities

her personal museum of once upon a times