you keep a small tin box. not for mints, not for chocolates. you put other things in it, things that you remove and steadily replace with other things. there are no strings tying the objects together—what they have in common is the light metal vessel in which they lay, for a while, though not together.
it is not so much the objects that you seek, but the memory they leave behind. you keep this tin box for the ghosts of familiar things. you somehow prefer their shadows to their actual curves and textures. the box is an old home, an abandoned park, a gallery of white walls hosting the people passing through your life in single-file processions. every corner of the box has limitless possibilities of shadows within it as you substitute the objects that inhabit it. small wooden horses, dried white rose petals, trick dices, half-burnt matches, clock arms, saucers without cups come and go with a blink and with a sigh, as you blink and as you sigh.
(and you will blink and you will sigh.)
with your small tin box, you know you are not entirely gone—only quiet (always), uncertain (certainly), falling behind, shooting stars and catching some, until their trail flickers out.