I opened a box, one that hadn’t seen its lid lifted in nearly 10 years.
I’d forgotten how much it hurts to miss you. Which sounds a crazy thing to say, but the pain is a thing that lives inside, hunkered down, rarely rawly confronted. Not unless a lid is lifted.
Intellectually I knew what was in the box. Which is different to the knowing when looking at the contents. So much remembered in theory, but details kill.
Notebooks with your scribbled craziness. The great letter of my soul which sat post system for a week. Your letters in return, wild as you, filled with madness and love and how much we missed each other.
A notebook I recall watching myself write in, when… Wrote in with little phrases. I read through, recognising things I still say, because of you. Aching at other of the words that are suddenly familiar but forgotten till that jar of memory, never uttered now that secret language has but one speaker.
A purse, a box, rusted keys, a hat, a little, so short skirt. And a certificate, not the one which we aimed to get. One that just says Death.
So much lost in the mind in ten years is scary. I don’t wish to forget. I speak your name my Pixie, my Janet. I remember. Perhaps in 10 years I will open the other box, of you and deep lore which hides in the loft. I know at least I will not forget.