Little Box

I can feel myself retreating into this little box

The box is quiet

Save for the occasional patter of raindrops

Or tears

I stopped counting long ago

The piano keys are still worn

And the strings of the cello even more so

My fingers still carry the scars of last March

And the scars in my mind still remain untouched wounds

I worry that every time my fingers skim over I’ll hit a nerve

Or botch a thought

Or destroy a plan

For this has all happened before.

It happened a year ago.

It happened in the little box

Yet no rain sounded from the outside

Just tears

I remember that much.  


I’ve written many poems about memory, recently. This is partly because many of my memories have resurfaced, in the most unpleasantly nostalgic of ways. However, with every replayed memory comes a new revelation, and I am grateful for those. At this rate, I’ll have enough epiphanies to drown out the bad experiences. Hopefully.