I collect jars – see through, lightweight and almost impossible to hold. I fill them up with anything find, poking holes in the top of the lids, just to make sure the lights buzzing inside don’t die out. I’m not really sure what these lights are, or I guess what I mean to say is they’re not any particular one thing. They’re your sock wrapped up in my sheets, so lost that you have to go home with one bare leg under your pants. No one knows that, except for me.
That’s the best part about these jars – they look pretty from the outside, but they’re just for me to understand. Oh, the light that’s glowing a little dimmer over there? That’s the lollipop the dentist gave me when I was six, that actually chipped by tooth, which sent me straight back into his chair. Greatest marketing scheme ever, I have to say.
I collect jars – they line the shelves of my mind, arranged chronologically. Usually the ones furthest away can hardly be seen anymore, but everything is relative. Some of those that are almost out of reach burn the brightest. Strangely enough, one of those is when you tore my favourite blanket in half when I was 5. A little nearer is one when I accidentally spilt water on your laptop. And most the brightest one of all is when you left me/when I lost you.