She wanted to fit her life in a suitcase,
up and go at any moment,
of time, or whim, or wonder,
or window of opportunity.
But the baggage would only ever pile up high,
filling every crack and crease, lined face,
until the suitcases ceased existence,
and a life of boxes began to spill over.
The landlord would tell her to move on,
and the process began of packing,
pulling out clothes,
throwing out whispers of moments past,
Like that dress she wore on the first date,
with that man,
that man who hurt her heart,
only enough to want to run.
Or the small vase,
cracked like her heart.
The dusty note books piled high,
scared to be opened,
for what would spring from there,
She found the long lost precious,
a small stone of pinky hues.
A pressed flower,
but remained to remind,
of the sweet smell of spring.
She sorted piles,
times, passed, to be kept.
And things to give on,
She threw trauma to the wind,
or in the bin.
she had not any more cares.
She thought on the process of packing,
if I don’t need these things,
why would I ever?