I don't accidentally stumble into memories of you anymore.

Each time I allow more than a fleeting thought is a calculated risk,

and when I do its because despite the high risk of being sad,

I know the only way to keep them in good shape, just like the 57' Chevy you always dreamed about,

is to pull them out every once in a while,
Knock the dust off,
Take them for a spin.

So every now and then I let myself go through old photos and poems,

It feels like going through your childhood toy box,

Slowly and gently sifting through each one,
Remembering the joy they brought you,
Way back then,

And once im satisfied,
I pick each one back up,
Safely stowed in the dusty old toy chest,
Close it on up,
Run my fingers accross the lid,
And I slide it back into my closet.

Every now and then I let myself go through old photos and poems,

It feels like going through your childhood toy box,

Slowly and gently sifting through each dusty old friend,
Remembering the joy they brought you,
Way back when,

And once im satisfied,
I pick each one back up,
Safely stowed in the dusty old toy chest,
Close it up tight
Run my fingers accross the lid,
And  slide it back into my closet.

Knowing full well,

my hands and face are soft wax,

I still wake up every day,

And pray to the sun,

Hoping one of these times,

It will spare a few drops,