On Sunday Mornings I Am Homesick For Myself

I keep a little piece of everyone I meet,

So much so that I wonder if I am not myself

But rather an accumulation of everyone I have ever met,

Everyone I have ever loved,

Hated,

Cried with,

Laughed with,

Shared a secret with,

And lost.

I think it's a blessing

To carry so many people with me,

Within me,

And that remembering all of the love does not end

Simply because they are gone.

I think it's a curse

To carry the weight of so many people with me,

Within me,

And most days I am just a museum of memories I want to forget.

I am homesick for myself.