Things talking to me...

...And then there are those moments, the ones you wish you could do over, and the ones you would never take back...
That street talks to me, it says: remember, remember the walks, the talks. The coffee shop says, remember the taste, the smell, the night and its colors. My couch talks too, you know? "remember those times when you felt safe, loved." My notebook tries to convince me: "you felt alive, you were able to love, YOU wrote it down". And it goes on, pictures, my gray sweater, my converse, that CD now kept away in a bag, the DVD that explained everything, messages, msn conversations, a park, spots in the sidewalk. They are all screaming. I turn away, I run, I ignore them, I put them away. Finally, I scream back at the top of my lungs... It's not me anymore, it's not mine, it doesn't mean anything.
They answer. "Oh, but it was you, they were yours, it meant something."
If having a precious memory is the best possession, then, that street, all those coffees, that bench, that forgotten spot. They are all still mine, aren't they?
And I wouldn't take it back. I wont.