The Box
a smile
There is a box at the back of the closet, behind the clothes that are never worn, behind the summer dress and the brown leather boots. It’s a small box, not too big, but big enough to fit all the memories and all the things a person wants to remember and forget.
A collection of contradictions.
The box is dusty and lonely, forgotten (maybe). In it it’s packed a button, from a coat that was worn that winter when the snow was falling like a crystals from the sky, when there were tears running down; a kiss, the one to remember for eternity, when the lips are swollen and plump; a cigarette, never smoked, but there still, still having the same smell as it was the first time, but holding the time and age in itself.
Everything is there. All the firsts. The first summer together, first skip of a heartbeat, first kiss, first burned bridge, first glance, first smoked cigarette. A collection of firsts.
With shaky fingers, the box is open. And much like the Pandora’s Box, all the contains filled the air, surrounding and suffocating. But there was hope. Painted in a shape of a flower, small and forgotten.
It’s now lifted in the air, the small flower. The Sun rays are penetrating through the petals and leaving beautiful shades of colors on the wall.
The clock is ticking somewhere in the background, it’s the only sound.
That combined with the dancing shadows in color and old, familiar scents are the symptoms for the dizziness, but the kind one, for the smile and for the reverie. A reverie of times when there was no need or reason to smile, but just to smile and nothing less or more.
And there was a smile. A lost one, the one that has been found. It was there to stay. To remind. To never be put back in the box.
A collection of contradictions.
The box is dusty and lonely, forgotten (maybe). In it it’s packed a button, from a coat that was worn that winter when the snow was falling like a crystals from the sky, when there were tears running down; a kiss, the one to remember for eternity, when the lips are swollen and plump; a cigarette, never smoked, but there still, still having the same smell as it was the first time, but holding the time and age in itself.
Everything is there. All the firsts. The first summer together, first skip of a heartbeat, first kiss, first burned bridge, first glance, first smoked cigarette. A collection of firsts.
With shaky fingers, the box is open. And much like the Pandora’s Box, all the contains filled the air, surrounding and suffocating. But there was hope. Painted in a shape of a flower, small and forgotten.
It’s now lifted in the air, the small flower. The Sun rays are penetrating through the petals and leaving beautiful shades of colors on the wall.
The clock is ticking somewhere in the background, it’s the only sound.
That combined with the dancing shadows in color and old, familiar scents are the symptoms for the dizziness, but the kind one, for the smile and for the reverie. A reverie of times when there was no need or reason to smile, but just to smile and nothing less or more.
And there was a smile. A lost one, the one that has been found. It was there to stay. To remind. To never be put back in the box.