Black box
polka-dot socks
kicked into the corner on the floor
but she does not live here anymore
I cannot be bothered to pick them up
or pretend that that is not her cup
that sits unwashed on the coffee table
still stained by her lipstick
I switch from sadness to reminisce for a bit
and sit where she used to sit
trying to remember the smell of her
the taste of her
the feel of her
but those memories are locked away
and gone with her
Black boxes from airplanes are really about how indestructible the memory is. It needs to survive a crash. The chapter today was about breakups and divorce. It lacked any mention of ice cream. I don't remember what breakups taste like anymore. Maybe I'm lucky. Maybe I'm in for a world of hurt. Peace out.
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