Where will all my inside jokes go?
Do I pack them with me,
Roll them up so they take up less space in my mind and my luggage
What happens when I get there?
Do I keep them locked in the trunk underneath my bed
Do I wear them like bracelets, clanging, crying, pulling attention and questions
Or like sunglasses, weighing me down, forcing me to look back every time I take a step forward
Maybe I’ll lay them flat and pull from both ends until they become string, weave it into a quilt, or sew a hole in my jeans, or tie up my hair,
Show myself that I can move on and not forget,
That the past has a place in the present,
And that jokes, although not timeless, can travel