He will text you two days in advance,
tell you not to worry when the shoebox,
unmarked, shows up by the door.
He will have packed it tightly,
neatly, the oldest one at the bottom
and the one you wrote him last at the top.
He will want you to read them all.
You will. He will want you to hurt,
to trace with cold fingers your own words.
He will not know how you scatter them
on your bedroom floor--every letter
you ever wrote on its back like a dying moth.
He will wish he’d included your toothbrush, the Polaroids,
your underwear, the button-down you bought him
for Valentine’s dinner, and also everything else.
tell you not to worry when the shoebox,
unmarked, shows up by the door.
He will have packed it tightly,
neatly, the oldest one at the bottom
and the one you wrote him last at the top.
He will want you to read them all.
You will. He will want you to hurt,
to trace with cold fingers your own words.
He will not know how you scatter them
on your bedroom floor--every letter
you ever wrote on its back like a dying moth.
He will wish he’d included your toothbrush, the Polaroids,
your underwear, the button-down you bought him
for Valentine’s dinner, and also everything else.