The Drawer
He took pictures of the times gone by, kept them stashed away in a drawer. And he'd visit those old days when he needed to, sometimes when he didn't. In fact there were far fewer times he'd found himself happy while backtracking in these snapshots of his old footsteps
"He's dead"
"He graduated college and has a family"
"I still see her from time to time"
And each night or day that these thoughts were kept at bay were no worse, but for some reason he'd do it anyway. He'd find himself staring at some photo and wishing he'd known then what he now knows, and simular clitche phrasing. Sometimes he'd get sentimental and keep a few in another drawer that could be seen with just one pull on the top drawer handle, scattered about and perfectly viewable in the light of his bedroom.
He'd wonder if others in the photos, and some who weren't, also
did some of these same movements or had some of these same thoughts. In these moments he'd lose himself and begin drinking more. He'd stay up late and go to bed well into the next day. Constantly reliving days passed and a few that never did outside his mind, then he'd put all the pictures away realizing for himself that no film, no drawing or image stolen from a time passed will ever be better than the daydream.
And the drawer goes lonely and untouched like his heart.
Will Robertson, 29 years old and I write poetry and short stories out of this little capital city named Little Rock, Arkansas in the United States.
I've been previously e-published in TheStrayBranch.org
