shoebox.

I packed you up in a single box, slid you under my bed and made sure that the cat wouldn't get into your remains.

It was all the letters of your name, every instance where I heard the sound of your voice and the few gifts exchanged on holidays or birthdays. At this point I kind of feel sorry for you; you must have a shitload of boxes under *your* bed. I even wrote in your calendar, marked the date of our next anniversary that died the same day we did.

I wonder why people hold onto lost loved ones, like ashes in urns on their mantles, like as though those human cinders would come back together and reshape themselves into a body to hold again...
I doubt that's why people keep them though.
Maybe it's the whole loss thing. I wouldn't know.

All I know is that pictures cannot speak to me, letters cannot comfort me and the smell of your hair lingering in the hat I would lend you cannot hold me.

Now, if only the chapstick you forgot here could kiss me.