The Collector

He is my favourite hiding place,

I stash my fears there,

in the lining of his heart.

 

He keeps them in pockets, 

turns them over in his hands,

running a thumb in circles,

over their surface,

'til they're smooth, transformed,

and returned to me:

smaller, simpler, and rounded.

 

He does this seamlessly,

calmly. 

 

They come back not quite so heavy.

 

He will be a wise old man, 

 

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