I am the canvas and you are the paint that leaves your gorgeous mark but goes on to do it again somewhere else. I am the messily pasted together book full of wrinkled memories you’ve moved on from. I am the mixed cd with scratches that rests on the passenger floor of your car. I am the statue that beams your greatness to the world, a marble mouth that has no original words to say. I am the song you’ll always know the words to, but you rarely sing these days. I am a hoarder of days past, a heart piled with have-beens so high you can’t walk a straight line. I am the vault that holds the things no one else would care to save at the end of the world.