I don’t look through my albums
anymore.
I know the images too well
have thumbed through them
far too frequently.
I no longer need sight to recall.
I know in my cranial palace
which pictures set my heart racing,
which make my pulse flutter,
which yield fastest tears.

I know my books
better than the hours of the day
and spend no time reviewing the works
when I can simply think back
and remember.
All of that past
is etched in my memory
too deeply to go
but I like to look at the shape of the albums
the fading colors on the spine
to trigger everything inside.

If I lost the books
it could all go away
something I will not risk.
I treasure those books
even if I never look at them again.