of memories of you.

It does not contain
cards, letters,
photographs; no hair band
of yours (found under the bed)
or that shirt of mine
you once slept in.

Instead, I have filled this box
with the night we first kissed
(on the sofa of your old flat,
in front of Eastenders);
the moment love dawned
on us, and we said it;
the day I took you to the station
and we cried.

There are times
it is difficult
not to put myself inside that box,
folding up like a contortionist
to fit, fastening the lid.

When I am done, I will cover it over
with the black, loamy soil of my garden
and never dig it up. Perhaps then
my memories of you will fade,
growing weak without sunlight or air,
until there is only an empty box
and a faint, sad dream.