To line my wanderers nest
if i could make a living off of lining my pockets i would have it easy.
after all, a trinket is the same as a piece of trash to anyone else, so..
i'll wear my chain mail lined with just that, notes from you that are thin as ancient scrolls.
to anyone else they're an invisible pane, but believe me these memories are inpenetrable.
used and resilient as a tight rope walkers net, shapeless without poles to define its borders.
i'm less afraid to lose with my pockets lined.
my sweaters are my nests and every time i scramble in i feel warmth from the dusty old projector that replays your laughs.
every one of them.
a heap of junkyard scrap lends the same coziness of your granny's guest room linens.
so if you line your pockets with memories, gold will be weightless.