Heart-Shaped Box
Pieces of something not fully formed
On the loneliest nights I creep into the attic where you live.
Untouched, unbothered, unopened since the last time the ghost of you grabbed me by the wrist and led me up there.
Your scent swirling in the stale air even before I rip the packing tape off.
The red sweatshirt I refused to give back wraps its arms around me.
Glitter from a card falls out of its envelope and onto my lap, the way I used to fall onto yours. I press your handwriting against my cheek—ink-stained and flushed—just to feel closer to your hands.
Pictures of us, hiding inside books, hoping nobody will catch us.
Those earrings you gave me that burn my ears; the way yours burn when I tell my therapist about you.
The paper ring I made you and thought it meant we’d last forever.
An old blue t-shirt, the one that brings out your eyes. I’ve worn it to bed a thousand times.
Valentines I never sent—addressed, stamped, kissed. Patiently waiting their turn to tell you I love you.
A time capsule of us forever trapped inside a cardboard box.
"Those earrings you gave me that burn my ears; the way yours burn when I tell my therapist about you."
That's a pretty damn cool and deep line.
Heart-Shaped Box and In Bloom