A box 

There’s a square box in my chest. With Something in it. (Life’s elastic, now I’m sure). Your hands. Their hands. My hands. Love 

Flows from the space and is decidedly blue. I liked to be in all the rooms of my house then. My house alone. In that box 

Only you, me and the box know. I don’t know how to say what’s in there. Only it’s a room arranged in a certain way. My 

Inside steadies with hands and stands on Legs there. Dark tall boxes adorn and I can’t see the shorter ones across. It’s too 

Crowded. The room’s too small. Maybe I Don’t fit there anymore. But you’re still There and I can’t piece it all together. I 

Can’t think of you alive anymore when I’m in the closet and the bathroom. You also were the taker of the blind white 

And my twisted scenes. I’m saving it here in this box an incongruous part of us in case some day I might find the other 

Pieces and make it all fit. 

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