I keep my box in the back corner of my closet
Behind the shoes and last year's projects
It is a boring little box, wouldn't want anyone who stumbles upon it to think to peek inside
The cardboard is slowly peeling away from itself
Pieces of tape slashed across the top
But the box keeps things neat and tidy
Sometimes I feel like opening it up, ripping the tape off
And sifting through it all to see if anything has changed,
giving everything inside away to interesting people.
But I have seen you make that mistake before
It usually ends in drama
The kind of pain that ruins your mascara
Destroys the walls people have so carefully built
Blasts through sensibility
I keep them in that drab box for one reason only
Emotions are messy
I'd rather not

I used to have to wait for the snow to fall to feel true silence
because that isn't something you hear,
That would defeat the point of silence.
No, silence is something visceral. It has depth and sensation.
I remember the first time I felt it when it wasn't snowing.
The final whispers of summer air were slipping through my fingers as I sat with my knees to my chest in a plastic Adirondack chair.

You tend to hear a lot about all of these 2 AM thinkers, I guess none of them were out that night.
There, I looked up and could see every star in the sky
The hazy strip of light of our corner of spacious vacuum. The constellations for which I had learned the stories by heart.
I suppose the moment
would have been romantic had I chosen to share it with someone but
I wanted this for myself.

  There was silence. An orchestra of solitude, and peace, and total disregard for what comes next.