Everyone moves on. Or they should.
1995. Boxful of mixtapes and photos.
Hand scrawled letters, assorted gifts.
A winter, a held hand, a magic first kiss.
But I lost her soon enough, and she sailed.
The stars still glimmer crisply in a winter night.
Put the lid on the box, and put it out of sight.
I don’t want to throw it away, but no point
in rummaging through the ashes of what didn’t burn.
A letter from Lindsey came today, a friend listening.
I’ll read it when I came back inside from drinking coffee,
looking up at the crisply glimmering stars in the winter night.