Life filed away,
folded, packed neatly
in clearly marked boxes:
ex-lovers, old friends,
happy holidays, treasured junk.
Loves and lives
stacked high in a garage
or a shed, out of sight
and far out of mind.
Except those restless nights,
those ice cream and pyjama days,
those eves of big changes
when you prowl among them,
run your fingers over the labels
and feel the bumps of ridges
of the names and places written boldy,
and peek under the lids seeking…
seeking what? Happy memories?
Slices of a life you have lived,
monuments to decisions you have made?
Pictures of smiles no longer worn,
trophies from relationships
that barely got past the starters gun.
Shards of the past
you can drag along your skin
and marvel at their power
to draw blood after so many years,
seeking for the happy thoughts
that made you pack it away,
made you keep the tear soaked memories.
Then you put them away again,
when the dark days have passed,
safe in their boxes,
back out of sight
and back out of mind.
Your secret safety net of agony,
your last cigarette, last sweet hit,
knowing they are there is enough
to remind yourself how you became
and who you once where
and that what hurt you once
still holds power
and what loved you once
is now packed away
in cold storage.