It's a bit clunky.

It's a bit like I'm carrying around a huge box of chipped plastic trophies.
Of postcards from places, from the clock, unwound.
Of photos I can no longer see, with people I would no longer recognize.
A collection of glass bottles full of potions and scents and resolutions.

Clattering together, chipping and ripping each other.

I shift my weight beneath me and I awkwardly manage the weight pressed against my chest.
I look up at you post inventory. No, no strike that. I look up at you, needing not a final inventory.
I choose you.

You are like Jesus, calling Peter out upon the water, the way you hold your hand out to me.
Brown eyes locked and loaded on mine, less mighty.
Teasing me silently to engage.

Without a single muscle, without a single tendon or ligament or article of soft tissue or blood cell or atom or speck of blood in my veins even so much as flickering in resistance, the box of silly fools drops to the ground, forgiven.