just visiting.

Strange, how we can tuck our memories into shoe boxes and slide them under our bed frames.  Cardboard walls that hold bits of you and gather little clouds of grey dust around the battered corners.  A receipt from the Inn, dated Halloween night.  A gold condom wrapper with your teeth marks near the tear.  There are Christmas cards and the glitter from the printed angel wings carpets the bottom of the box like sand.  A beer coaster.  Your snipped hospital bracelet.  My entire heart, barely beating and spongy, soaking everything we knew in blood.  The one letter you wrote, the plastic gumball machine ring and a bundle of arcade tickets from the Wharf.  Everything feels foreign under my fingers as I rummage through our tangle of intertwined moments.  A bottle cap.  I can hardly remember that night.  I never bother to pick the dust away from the box before sliding it back under the bed skirt.  There’ll just be more there when I visit you in a few months again, anyway.