The travel-memory boxes glanced
From the glass shelves like every other day.
Calling out to me with their ounce of hope,
As if they have lot to say.
I picked up the one covered with lavender satin.
It was from the summer of 2017.
The inner fabric was still bright
But the exteriors had faded,
From the sun's golden light.
The box had a receipt of the cafe
The one with the dartboard from across the street
The printed letters had ashened
But the handwritten message on it
Still smelled sweet.
A letter, a ribbon, few bills,
And that leaf from the park,
Some muted, some still same,
And few with some marks,
Chronicled the anecdotes, the conversations,
And the stories,
Like they would never let go
Of those days of glories.
The faded fabric and the marks
Didn't matter anymore,
When the travel-memory box
Brought its core to the fore.
Aren't memories too, mysteriously alike?
We think they have faded into oblivion,
But a trifling touch paints everything radiant
Within a second's strike.
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