I’ve kept you in my head so long
That the walls of my mind
Are painted with colors from the day we met:
Clouds scattered against the bluest sky
I had ever seen.

The floor is littered with poetry
Some of the finest I’ve ever written.
On the side is a locked box
With a barely closed lid.
Inside are the words I have yet
Spoken and said.
And they will stay
Unspoken and unsaid.
I  sit across the cold box
With my back pressed against the wall
Reminding myself that it’s time
To let it turn to dust.

Your voice won’t stop echoing
From the record player in the corner.
Dents on its side and
A fire under it
That refuses to engulf
The oil I spread.

The door in the back leads into a room.
Puddles of tears littered across the floor.
The record is barely audible as I approach
The center,
Which despite the pain and memories,
Still beats.