Static

There’s a black box sealed with tape,

It sits next to my TV.

When I look into that box,

I can look back at memories;

Different channels I can tune into,

When you were still with me.

No remotes used to flip through them,

My desire is the key.

*click*

The day you found a pinecone

That fell out our favorite tree,

It was over by our picnic spot;

Now dead grass is all you see.

You ran over with excitement

And presented it to me,

So I kept it in that catacomb

I built next to my TV.

*click*

I recall all of your drawings,

When you asked me to stand still,

And I struck a pose,

And you struck at the paper with your quill.

I can see the little wrappers

That you folded into boats,

With the writing tucked inside them,

Little heartfelt, loving notes.

I can see those drawings leaking,

Where the pen would slash and prick,

I can see reflections of myself

Crying in colored ink.

I can see the box start flooding

With the tears of past-said things,

But the little boats inside the box

Have places now to swim.

*click*

I can almost hear the letters that you wrote,

You called me “Dear.”

Then the letters got progressively

Filled less with love than fear.

Words of hope and broken promises

Too large to ever keep,

Somehow fit inside the grave

Where disappointment always creeps.

*click*

I remember when you printed out

A picture that you took,

And you bought a wooden frame

So I could place it with my books.

That frame is cracked and broken now,

The picture's stuck inside,

And the moment it was taken's stuck,

Ingrained inside my mind.

*click*

When I think back to that box,

All I think are memories,

Different channels all contained,

Now a forbidden treasury.

So when I peer into that corner,

Knowing well what I should see,

Instead there's sounds of tape and crying.

There's only static on TV.