There is a box in your bedroom
which I will fail to describe.
Not because I am uninterested,
but because I am incapable.
To what end should I endeavor
to detail the wondrous contents
of this container which I have never
seen, much less heard
of second hand?

It would seem a futile exercise
of my pen to put down all
the possible items (love letters,
souvenirs, a bug collection) you
might have stashed away.

Yet, I wonder what it would
be like to be hidden in that box,
cradled in an uncomfortable darkness
with some crusty rubber bands
and a plastic teacup, listening
to the muffled sounds of your morning routine.

Over time I would make out
the click of your curling iron
and the cadence of your final walk
to the door, anticipating
the lazy afternoon when you would embark
on reorganization, hoping that you were feeling
sentimental, but straightening to look my best
in case you were feeling clean.