As I sort through boxes of yesterday
I hear you whisper
But I do not answer
For I do not speak with spectres of plans that went awry
Or the ghosts of love not fully realized.
As I dig deeper more spirits of past disasters join the chorus of the broken hearted
But I do not add my voice to your song.
Yet when I sob I ask:
Do I cry for you?
Do I cry for them that came before you?
Or am I just crying for myself?
Question: Do I place these memories we shared on a mantel to be polished and admired?
Or do I pack them deep into a box not to be discovered until the next train wreck?
Photos and mementos are just snapshots of what might have been,
Who needs that reminder?
Where are you?
Are you sitting on the floor like me? Tears dropping unchecked as you write poor poetry?
No. I picture you sipping tea with a friend. Your laugh, always loud, resounding off the walls and finding it's way into the hearts of everyone who hears it. That is your gift.
This poem is my goodbye. It will be packed away with our other things.
Not forgotten, yet no longer a part of my life.
Goodbye.
I hate packing.