Will you come back and pick up your belongings lying breathless in your old room? Will you reclaim the home you once fled from? Will you pick up the ghost-leaf that rests on your window sill, a relic of the last autumn that passed without you?
Will you come back and pick up the dreams boxed-up under your bed? Will you pick up your nobody-self, who knew the real you, now that you are someone? Will you return for the last raindrop that stopped falling after you left? Will you pick up your old journal, the one you swore never to read?
Will you face it all, picking up the pieces of your former bronze self, now that you’ve become gold?