the old versions

i used to keep
the old versions of me
in a box under the bed
until the past editions
grew so numerous
that they began to crowd
the art that no longer
fit into the frames on the walls,
so i relegated them to the cellar
where all the other dregs
of lives past go to be forgotten.
the old versions of you
are tucked somewhere
into the bookshelves
in the back of the closet,
jumbled up with fairytales
and myths. there used
to be more to the collection,
but once you closed the door
behind you i sold everything
i could, too angry and too proud
to hang on to the reminders.
now i sometimes wish i had
not been so dramatic, had kept
what was good for itself,
and not for you. in those days
i supposed there was only
total separation or none at all—
and, i suppose, that is how
it should be. i do not let
the old versions of you mingle
with the old versions of me.