Every sentence I write starts with "I" but is always about "u"
The box sitting in my closet for the past year was opened today
The lid hung open and your aroma weighted my blood, making my heart sink
There was your lipstick- the one I held onto everyday for months after you died, the capsule I slid in between my finger on my walk to school each day, praying it would grant me the strength to walk through those doors and go on without you
The pastel mud with the print of your lips still gently engrained in its surface, I wouldn't dare smudge your last imprint on the world—
and even though I cannot bear to open that lipstick now, a year later, I feel the shy crevices your wisdom left all over my room tonight— and I can only dream of sleeping
I suppose god gifted me the strength to let you out of that box today, and let you feel the breeze from my window once again. I'd kept you to myself for long enough.
