Ten small boxes
on the living room floor
hold all the shards
of last years adventures.
Six days without talking,
three months of death,
a week in the tub,
they had to dry my bones
before putting the skeleton
back together.
These lacquered containers
hold laughter like ashes
scattered along the East coast
until the lids blew shut
Bits of teeth temper the mass of:
walking against frozen lakes,
a kiss through mounds of snow
piled high in the courtyard
of a downtown church.
That day I lost my wallet and
you asked me to leave my lover.
Ten small boxes for every day
with ample room
for the really bad hours.
This baggage is mismatched
with out wheels it drags heavy in
train stations, across continents.
I've packed it so may times
I know the artifacts of every box:
lipstick on the bathroom mirror
spelling out the songs
we found ourselves too tired to sing,
five incisions on my left shoulder,
missing hair from when I tried to leave
but she wasn't ready to let me go,
a stab wound in my thigh,
drugs hidden in my childhood lunchbox,
too many vicaten and I felt like
I was on fire,
missing my window seat
where rain and snow became dances,
poems too sweet for the jail of paper.
The recent addition was the idea
that my decisions are unstable.
I kiss away every stereotype
and love the skin beneath the mask.
For a moment I think of
pulling these boxes open,
placing memory on display.
Artifacts from a dig that
left me nothing but dirty.
However, I'm attempting minimalism
and I'm happy with excess.
So I gather ten little boxes
into a garbage bag
and donate emotion to the needy.
Sealed reminders of a year
I've outgrown.