In a box I keep all the things I’ve lost:
photos of faces long forgotten; places
on postcards with no address; glossed
over, all, by eyes unfocused—just traces
of my former self, letters to a me I knew
once, as their authors did. Now they all rest
on a shelf, old friends and lovers—and you,
secreted away in sweet-scented text.
Sometimes I unfold you–the way your hair
would tumble down like a final curtain,
exhausted, on my face—and laid bare,
savor your cursive’s perfect curves, certain
flourishes reminding me of laughter
as they rise and fall; the light purple ink
curls upwards just like your lips after
some wry retort. I cannot help but think
how the paper resembles your pale skin
bathed in sunlight, and how much paler now
your memory, over the years grown thin.
For a moment I mourn, sigh, and then vow
to lay our dear love’s ghost at last to sleep. . .
then return us to the box, still to keep.