Tell me who I am, I ask

The bundle of papers sitting in my drawer.

Stories of my life,

Molded into letter form.

Who I was,

And the things that I adored.

That is who I am,

A configuration of words,

My name written in your hand,

A multitude of places and faces,

Some still here

Others lost within the pages.

Every night I trace my lost fingers,

Across the rutted lines that

Seem to dance across my mind,

Allowing me to visualize

The scattered memories like

A projection against my eyes.

The sun sets,

And time binds.

But these pages will always be stained.

With memories of you and I.