My apartment looks quite spartan. White walls with nearly no picture on it, a really big black table and four chairs, a huge couch, wardrobe, cupboard, less decoration. A lot of space. 120 m.
No dirt, no dust. Just space to breathe easy. Everything on its place. Everytime. No mixed styles, no sign of creativity. I love this way to live. Nothing that could harm my freedom, nothing to take care for, no trend to follow.
But that’s just the first sight.
In fact I’m a collector.
Inside my wardrobe and my cupboard there are treasures, bursting the regular order. Between the shining, filigree silverware in the drawer there’s knife and fork which differ from the other. Simple, unexiting, cheap. Latest pieces I put in my bag as I left you early in the morning.
I would have never bought myself, because of quality. But now I’d never miss it, cause of you.
Boxes in my cupboard, choclate and chili in the fridge, your razor in the bathroom and a shinai in the bedroom.
Never going to use this things, but
enjoying to own.
The more I’m collecting in my home the more the greatest wish seems to come true.
In a little box in my bedroom I placed all your letters, the coke with our names printed on it, some dried flowers, tickets, photos and all the other stuff on which the sticky dust of memory left its mark.
Your hair strand covers the picture in my purse and the silver ring you gave me, decorates my finger.
Each time I’m leaving you something of your property escorts me on my lonely way home.
Whenever you’re with me, some of your things left behind by luck.
Underwear, socks, T-Shirts neatly are between my clothes. Your pajamas I just stuffed under my pillow. Each night I’m absorbing all the scent of you which lefts in the fibers, grabbing all the memories to keep you in my mind, remembering your warm and gentle touch, dreaming of a future the most beautiful artwork of the collection at last will be mine forever.