in a silent way you don't belong to anyone. curator of a museum you built yourself, filled with people you've known, elements of places you've been, representations of feelings you've had, and things that never were but could have been, manifested as reconstructed skeletons propped up in glass display cases.

i would keep you somewhere between too close and not near enough. right on the tipping point, where you would rest in what would seem to be a precarious position, without the threat of ever falling. but you don't belong to me.

not belonging to anyone doesn't mean you're free. it only means you're unkept.
unhinged uncommitted

what is it about me
that makes me this way?
what's it to you?
who go