We often put people into boxes. Nonexistent, made up, nothing close to reality. Boxes.
The first impression doesn’t matter when it comes the inner contents of the box labeled with a particular persons name.

It’s the memories. Those that are stronger seem to dominate. They take up most of the space. When it comes to you my box is filled with an abundance of emotions. One overlapping the other, fighting for space when there is only so much I can give.

Your box is overflowing with the smell of caffeine and pancakes in the morning, it is loaded with the warmth of your arms as they sit bound around my shoulders, safety. Raindrops dripping from your lashes as smoke fills our lungs, your box is the first cigarette that loosely hung from my lips.

Your box is a bunch of Lavender’s in a vase on the kitchen counter for when I come home and it’s watching anime till’ four in the morning when we end up snoring on each others shoulders, just to wake up with sore backs the next day.

Your box is also throwing things and watching them slam against the walls forming irreplaceable cracks in the white, it’s screaming at the top of my lungs and begging you to stay. It’s watching you and her, hand in hand as scars start to form in mine.

Your box is saying goodbye because there’s nothing else left for me to say. It’s packing up and getting out of your way, of her way.
Some boxes are better left sealed, shut tight. And I’m trying to forget, but the box I build for you has stuck to me over time like glue and forgetting might just be impossible.-H