9 YEARS

I’m alone in an empty house.
I wander around, collecting every little thing that once was yours and putting it in a box.
This is gonna be your box.
There’s letters in it, and drawings and receipts and photos and postcards and little notes and dry flowers and cinema tickets and song lyrics and poems,

so many poems.

You were my first poem.
I wander around and pick up a note here, a letter there.
I’m sure I must have a photo of us somewhere, but I can’t remember where.
I end up on my bed.
I look around and I see a piece of tape glued onto a socket.
“Ti voglio” written on it.
You put it there a long time ago and I still can’t bring myself to remove it.

I’m only just starting to realise that I do miss you.

You’re in the little things and in all the time we’ve spent together and in all the knick-knacks I am putting in this box.
This is gonna be your box.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to open it without crying.
Problem is, you’re not only in the letters and the drawings.
You’re in every single brick of this house.
You’re in front of the gate, sat on your black and yellow moped, with a brown t-shirt on, and we talk and talk and talk ‘til two in the morning cause I've just come back from holidays and we haven’t seen eachother in a month.
You’re in that big, big bed, teasing me because you don’t like the smell of my night cream, but then you hug me from behind before I drift off to sleep.
You’re in the kitchen, soaking biscuits in your tea until it becomes cloudy and I always wonder how you could possibly like having soggy biscuits in your tea.
You’re in my room, after we’ve spent the entire afternoon in bed and the windows have become foggy.
You’re in so many of the songs I have in my Ipod, but it’s just too much of a hassle to delete them 'cause Itunes is impossible to use so I just skip them and listen to something else.
You’re in my ukulele, for all the times we’ve sung together.
My throat hurts, 'cause that’s what happens when your body wants to cry but you don’t let it.
I’m suddently cold and I have goose bumps on my arms.
My glasses are dirty now that nobody’s here to clean them properly.

-Susanna (13/08/2017)