after

There’s a box somewhere in my home, hidden underneath a loose floorboard in one of the empty guest rooms (and I've plenty of those). No one knows of its existence but myself.

And though it’s been there for quite some time–sometimes I even forget it exists–I still remember its contents, clear as day: red roses (those would be dry by now), love letters smelling of perfume and champagne; kept in envelopes sealed with lipstick stains. Airplane tickets to Valencia, three frequently-listened-to vintage jazz records (two were Crosby and one Nat King Cole) that used to belong to my grandparents, and dozens and dozens of photographs.

I never open it. It reminds me too much of you.