Written Words – Boxed

I’ve been tracing my fingers along the seam of a fastball for too long.

There’s a space in the back of the attic for memories like these.

For newspapers, crinkled and yellow, with my name on them.

For European pictures.

There’s a place in the attic for all the ideas on post-its that I fell in love with, that I never quite made it to.

Not defeat. Just storage.

There’s only so much space when you fly with carry-on baggage, and I can’t keep carrying on like this.

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