Dear You

I walked through the wet grass this morning, in the shoes.

They gave me a blister from the short distance of my car to the office.

I wore them today,

Because my dress was too short to wear booties.

I’m typing a poem onto a blank sheet of paper,

Not many feelings are come out,

But I’m trying,

Really trying to paint a picture.

Those feelings, passions, emotions and thoughts,

That crowd my mind from unproductiveness,

are carefully folded up like,

Cashmere sweaters in a spectrum of colors into

that metaphysical box.

In a far off land,

the rose colored box, embroidered in gold thread keeps them safe

and away.

Blossoming flowers crowd the outside of the box, a bulky blue lock keeps it shut.

I think you might have the key

For it no longer dangles around my neck

or around my wrist.

I’ll have to travel through the eerie forests,

past the bunny in the painting on my wall, you found in the archive room.

Further into the landscape in the background, where there is a vast dark green

of trees, and fake spaces,

that circle the cabin where my box sits waiting.

I think you’ve given up and left it there.

Do you no longer exist?

Do I no longer exist?

I don’t have time.

Not a minute, second, fraction of a second,

can I think about anything that has to do with you.

But that’s all

I can do.

No thinking, planning, laughing, or smiling.

Cynical, I guess to safely fold away feelings.

Like safely packing up and leaving,

without any hope.

No hope,

that it will get better.

I’ll keep wearing the shoes,

Walk through the wet grass and through those familiar forests.

The only connection to someone no longer here,

are things.