Drawers are strange places.
Things go there when they are not ready to disappear.
Not because they are valuable, but because
throwing something away requires admitting
you were wrong about why you kept it.
I keep broken things.
A watch that still ticks.
A sketch that still stares.
A paper falcon folded wrong but refusing to forget flight.
Perhaps that is why I keep them.
Because we call unfinished things failures and unfinished people potential.
The drawer is not where broken things wait to be fixed.
It is where abandoned versions of ourselves wait quietly,
hoping someone remembers they existed.
And every night, I open it,
hoping to find something I lost.
Only to discover
the only thing I ever abandoned was myself.
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