once,
i think,
when i was younger and had fewer thoughts,
when my stories were fewer and thinner
and not worth the sharing
(they're gone now, most of them,
buried beneath the piles of possibilities
that have come after).
now there's too much:
if i had drawers lining the inside of my skull,
they'd be stuffed too full to close,
thoughts wadded and crumpled and still not fitting
into the
space
allotted
them.
(if i had margins, they'd be covered in notes.)