Hey, Hoarder

I am a hoarder. Of people, of places, of things. I go from place to place collecting memories like a crazed maniac. I collect smiles, touch, words, feelings. I listen attentively, paying rapt attention, savouring all of you so I can keep some for myself. I am such a hoarder. Here, Love doesn’t come and go. Here, Love comes, carves a stool of your words, your song, And love stays. Never leaving. I am a hoarder. “Letting go” is the only English Phrase I am incapable of comprehending. For what does it even mean? To let go? To let go of your love? To shut the door and keep love out? To pretend that she doesn’t still sit ever so quietly, ever so comfortably in your heart’s corner. What does it mean to let go? To pretend that you do not see him when you close your eyes to sleep? To pretend that 4 years doesn’t feel like 4 minutes? I am such a hoarder. I hold on to all the things I can. I’m not sure why. Maybe I am too familiar with loss. Maybe I know that everything ends. Life. Love. It all ends. And so, I hold on. I hoard. I preserve every little moment, every tiny detail, every memory, every word, every song. I gather them all up in my arms and place them in love’s laps. Because I am a hoarder, every one I have ever loved still has bits and pieces of my heart. Hoarders are freely giving of themselves. Maybe we believe you should see us hoardworthy and so we give. I am not sure. But if this Hoarder has ever called you, “Love” then this Hoarder still loves you.