There is a shoe box under my bed that exists for one sole purpose. No pun intended.
Its purpose was – YOU.
See, the only way I could deal with us, was to write. So, I would hand write letters to you, sealed envelope and all, whenever I felt the need to. I guess you could say it was rather frequent because the whole damn thing is full. I actually ran out of space. That’s the day I stopped, like the lack of space was some kind of cosmic sign, or something.
There are exactly 333 letters that you’ll never read. You’ll never see the wine glass stains, or how the ink smeared from my tears, or the drops of coffee that accidentally dribbled onto a few of the pages. You’ll never know how I felt back then, how much I loved you – you’ll never read a word.
So, now what do I do? Bury it? I suppose. Burn it? Maybe. I can’t bring myself to simply throw it away. What was once a source of comfort to me is now a box of pain. How do I destroy it? My predicament makes me think of Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Fire seems appropriate because at one point you were all I ever thought I could, or would, or should desire. But ice – never! Because I will never ever hate you.
So, if I must destroy it and destroy it I must – FIRE.