The Shoebox

Ten years,

and it all fits in a shoebox.

A time capsule of us—

photos bent at the corners,

concert wristbands still sticky with summer sweat,

love letters written in handwriting

I used to trace like a prayer.

I found it by accident,

sweeping through the closet

where old coats hang

Dust covered the lid,

but when I lifted it,

dimensions cracked open

and there you were again—

laughing in the passenger seat,

spinning in the kitchen,

promising me forever.

I held the movie ticket

from that night we kissed under flickering light,

I swear the paper was still warm.

I read your words—

I’ll never leave—

and felt the echo,

sharp and cruel,

like a phantom limb that still twitches,

still aches,

even though it’s gone.

It’s strange,

how memory can feel alive

and dead at the same time.

Strange how ten years can shrink

to a box small enough to hide away,

but not small enough

to stop it from breaking me open

when I touch it.

I closed the lid

like closing a chapter.

Placed it back

in the darkest corner of the closet.

But it still beats in the dark

like a second heart—

yours, mine,

and everything we lost.