You

Collecting dust under the bed are mementos. All the ticket stubs, flyers and photographs from our years together are shoved so far back that I needed to get down on my front to reach it. The box slid out, clouds of dust arising to defend it, to protect its dormancy. I waved them away and cracked it open.
Your face, grinning, stared up at me.

I slammed the lid back down.

I couldn’t do it.

I had to take deep breaths; this was like digging up a grave. I put you in a box and buried you and now I’m digging you up. My head knows this is about closure but my heart mistakes it for hope. I looked at pictures of you with your long dark hair and bright pink lip gloss. I smiled fondly at photos of you smoking, drinking and dancing at the Roof Garden.

Then I found the picture of us kissing.

Your arms were encircled around my waist, my hands wound in your hair holding you still so that I could press my lips to yours. You tasted of fruity lip balm. I don’t know who took that photo but I’m glad they did.

Then I find the other photo.

Heart pounding I couldn’t shove the box back under the bed fast enough. When I went to bed later that night I could hear your apologies echo in my ears.