Whether we intend it or not,
We hoard our memories,
Like a dragon in a fantasy story,
Within our cramped quarters,
They pile up in slipshod stacks,
Love letters and blueprints,
Photographs and macaroni art,
They call it an illness,
But to us it is treasure,
A different kind of aurum,
It is beyond valuable,
Despite the barbs and rough edges,
But I daresay,
To others it is more akin to copper.
