I was 14 when I learned to build boxes.
The ones for myself always seemed too big, too obtuse –
The corners jutted out too far to blend with the surroundings.
Maybe I took things out because they just couldn’t fit.
The mixed priorities of a mind that couldn’t see past the carnival mirrors –
Perhaps it was safekeeping.
I listened to your poems.
One ear attuned to the ‘I remembers’ and the ‘back when I’s –
Imagination took hold of nostalgia, crafting my own memories.
Back to the summer of transition,
Of foreboding anxiety twisting, powerful ebbs and flows –
A box much too small for the mountainous crags.
I was aware of the empty spaces.
Waves had carved the cracks, illuminated facets of the hazy shadows,
But there is nothing to be seen any clearer.
That’s the problem with shrinking –
When you spend so much time trying to do so,
Some memories go with the space.
I could lie that the intention wasn’t conscious,
But the memories were too much to hold on to.
Nostalgia forgot the grey of that summer, but took the bright yellows and reds instead.
It was the look look look look back and I –
I won’t remember.