I spent the day unpacking
going thru boxes and crates;
traveling back,
to a place that no longer exists.
A place that now,
never existed.
And for every item
that came out,
from beneath the cradle and fold of crisp white tissue and bubble wrap,
came another ache and punch of disgust.
I found myself physically ill halfway thru the task.
It was like enduring the autopsy of a loved one.
"Dig deeper towards the bottom,
and maybe we'll discover just what killed this beautiful beast."
And it was the photographs that felt the most like shattered bones.
Our lives had been documented by accomplished artists.
Important moments were captured and held forever
in various palettes;
bordered by thick mats with proud signatures,
inside custom frames.
"The Kiss"
This picture is so beautiful that it hurts me to wrap it back up
and tuck it away.
It was a personal moment,
stolen by another artist friend.
We never knew our tender moment
had been compromised.
He found us in an embrace on a pale blue night
amongst a thousand other souls.
His lens and eye
made the masses disappear,
and it was just her and I.
As we were,
oblivious to the madness that surrounded us.
He captured our Nation of Two.
This picture hung in an exhibition in Germany.
And now I just want to burn it,
make it all go away.
What do you do
when you have important works of art
depicting you, and a life that is no longer?
I guess I will just wrap them back up
in crisp white tissue and bubble wrap.
And stow them away behind dressers,
or in safe spots in attics and sheds.
But I find myself asking,
why?
Perhaps it is something broken in my machine.
I have something,
from every person that has ever touched my existence.
If you are reading this
and know me,
ask me.
I have something of ours.
And so I carry this weight.
And crisp white tissue, and bubble wrap,
keep the weights safe from harm
and future damage.
Tonight I would like to sleep
in crisp white tissue and bubble wrap.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much
to wake up,
out here,
so very alone.
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