The box

He found a box.
Cheap cardboard, nothing special,
But it was all he had and so he used it,
And piled within it all the hopes and smiles,
The stolen kisses, and the laughs at stupid jokes,
Unspoken knowings and the finishing of thoughts.
He took them all and placed them in his box.
The dreams of how they would grow old,
With grand kids running through the yard,
And all those unexpected, sweet hellos,
Which made a day into a torrent of pure joy.
He took each memory of their past,
And carefully, lovingly tied it with a piece,
Of his own heart then laid it gently there,
Inside the only thing he had,
That box that looked so shabby now.
Once every memory, every tear and smile,
Each laugh and gesture, every piece of them was in,
He closed the lid and placed it at his lover’s feet,
Hoping against hope that memory would stir,
And they could once again unwrap,
At least some part of what they had.
Once he had laid his tribute at his prince’s feet,
He turned and sat within the corners of the room,
A hermit now not doomed but happy now to wait,
Until such time as he might his true lover’s heart awake.

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