PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Street lamps and fireflies illuminated the sidewalks that evening. Dusk. Sunsets never seemed to arrive late enough on those warm summer nights, yet sleep encumbered every limb of her body.  She lingered at her crossroad, mapping out every word she needed to say and how she would say it. But it was all in vain; he always found a way to fluster her thoughts, causing her to stammer like some mindless idiot.



She suddenly became very aware of a weight pulling at her arms. A box full of his things, memories she had not been strong enough to let go of till then. She shifted it awkwardly and crossed the street. Just a few more houses down and she would be there.



The minutes escaped her, wriggling just beyond her fingers. She was on his doorstep and he watched her curiously from behind the screen door. She looked tired but smiled a sincere greeting, just as she always had. He had once fallen in love with her smile and the way it seemed to brighten the darkest corners of his life. But those days had long since past and that smile only provoked shadows, constant reminders of a man he used to be.



They didn’t exchange any words, but he held his home open to her- his home, not his arms nor his heart. She set the box down slowly, careful not to upset its contents.



“What’s all this?” he gave they box a playful kick and passed her an interested but puzzled look.



“Oh, it’s just some old stuff. You want to go through it together?” she was hoping he would, that way she’d have a chance to explain everything. She had rehearsed her speech for weeks, waiting for the perfect time and now it had come. September 5, the day they had met four years earlier.



“Sure.” He lifted the box effortlessly and placed it on the coffee table in his living room, sinking into his leather couch. She seated herself next to him and reached for the first item. A black hat.



He smiled brightly, recognizing his old cap.



“You stole this from me ages ago! I bought a new one you know. Not this color of course.” He set it atop his head and waited for the next item.



It was his sweatshirt. She had fallen asleep in it countless nights. Each time his scent became more faint until it smelled like her and her other clothes.



“Wow. Can you believe I actually wore this at one time?” he held it up against him and it looked tiny against his older, more muscular chest. He had matured so much in many ways since they had been sixteen. Unfortunately, it was four years too late.



She tugged a blue windbreaker from the box and laid it across his lap. He recognized it, but his eyebrows furrowed and his forehead wrinkled in confusion. When had he given that to her?



“Oh, don’t tell me you forgot that day in the park already! We were playing catch and it started to rain, remember?”



“Yeah, I remember it now; I lost my glove.” She rummaged through the box and removed a tattered baseball glove.



“No you didn’t,” she crooned, handing him the mitt. “You left it in the trunk of my jeep. I found it there a month ago. Shows how much I clean out my car.” She bit at her lip nervously, preparing the last few items.



“What else you got?” se handed him an armful of tapes and CD’s.



“The movies you left at my place and I think those are all the CD’s you insisted I listen to.” She pulled on off the top of the stack and inspected it carefully. “I think this was my favorite.”



“Let’s listen to it.” He grabbed the CD and popped it in the stereo across the room. Distinct piano music drifted from the speakers; she would have known that song anywhere. Then came the voice, moaning a chilling melody with words that lingered too long. It was as beautiful as the first time she ever heard it, yet it haunted her just then. Their song.



He quickly turned the stereo off and returned to his place on the couch.



“So far, all this stuff is mine. Is it all mine?”



“Nope.” She lifted a brown folder from the box and handed it to him. “It’s my poetry portfolio. It has just about everything I’ve written since the time we met, rough drafts and all. Since the majority of them are either written for you or about you, I thought you might like to read them.”



“No, Becca, I can’t take this. Don’t you want it? I mean, you can’t just give away four years of feelings and creativity.”



“It’s OK, really. I have copies of all of them; I want you to have it.” He leafed through them and smiled as he passed a few he recognized the titles of. He had read over 100 of them through the years.



She removed the last item, a small gray box. His expression went from smiling to almost angry.



“I gave those to you. I don’t want them back.”



“Ben, at least give me a chance to explain.” She opened the box, revealing a pair of diamond-studded earrings. He had given them to her for Valentine’s Day a year after they started seeing one another. “You gave these to me when I loved you, the love teenagers have for each other. But we’re not kids anymore and we’re certainly not in love.” She paused briefly, waiting for him to interject, and continued when it was apparent he was not going to do so. “We were young, I attached sentimental value to those earrings and now they’re basically a symbol of us and what we were.”



He accepted the box and she breathed a heavy sigh of relief.



“Thank you for understanding.”



“No, Becca, I don’t understand. What does this mean? Are you mad at me for something? Are you saying we can’t be friends?”



“Not at all. It’s none of that. This is just how I feel about it.” She knew he was going to take it this way and yet she still couldn’t think of another way to explain it.



“Well I don’t understand.” He watched her rise to her feet and place everything back in the box. She didn’t look over at him or say a word, just carried on silently. When she finished, she left the box where it was and moved to the door, turning just before she left.



“You don’t have to.”