Note to Self

In a pink box under my bed

there are letters.

Collecting dust & keeping

company with worn out clothing for a doll &

a forgotten notebook.

In the box, under the letters there is

a torn bazooka bubble gum wrapper.

“You smelled like maple,” I wrote.

A photo of us at a Christmas party.

I’m leaning into your chest

the lights behind us out of focus.

“I don’t think you do anymore.

I don’t know why.”

The box isn’t big enough

to hold the memory of you;

kissing me on the bridge,

—“Soulmate”—

Or under the October moonlight

when you told me things couldn’t be the same.

“Give me something new to cry over.”

I think about burning it.

How easily the box could catch,

swallowed by the heat.

Written Summer 2020

Art Credit: Helene Graham