pale memories strewn on my bed around me,
wondering, biting my lip,
exactly why you brought them back to me.
I would like to think that you did this
because you regard these things too valuable to keep,
but that would not explain
the ticket stubs from our first concert,
or the barrette you once took from my hair.
Each memento, given to you with love,
is dry and empty now or, worse,
aimed coldly at my heart.
These were not your things to return.
They were yours to keep
or they were yours to discard if you so chose,
these rejected small bits of sadness and broken dreams,
but these things were not your things to return.