Arbutus, Cyclamen
I.
There is a locked box on top of an old wooden drawer,
Made with weathered carvings and faded varnish.
The key would fit in a small, rusty lock,
But time has beaten it out of shape, and out of memories.
Someone had once made this box, surely,
Someone had once said 'I made this for you',
Surely, someone must have once loved you.
II.
In a broken closet, behind musty, moth eaten clothes,
There is a pile of crumpled paper, yellowed and torn.
To hold them, one must be absolutely, dreadfully sure,
Of their own strength, their own flaws, and their own inability to let go.
'Fragility' is sometimes synonymous with paper, you know,
To be held harshly, to be wet, this is something unacceptable.
Then, in that broken closet, by the light of your own hands,
Can you perhaps read the words that have never been sent?
III.
Noon. After. Dust. Tea. Ink.
There in that blessed house—
No, there in that cursed plain—
My dear, why won't you smile?
Asks the delicate porcelain face.
I do not know, I answer,
And I cannot hear my own words.
The clink of china announces a break in the day,
And when I look in the water,
I see nothing but,
A smiling porcelain face.
IV.
Please open your hands, open your heart, open your eyes—
Please look at the stars, look at my heart, look at the forever-ever sky—
Please look at the map, look at the seas, look at the mountains—
Please follow my steps, follow my dreams, follow, follow me—
And, please, when you reach me, don't forget the key—
Look, please, look—
I've made something for you to keep.
V.
There is a storm, great and angry, and it pushes through the doors.
On top of a drawer, inside an abandoned room, there is a small wooden box.
Its markings have long been worn away, and its contents must surely be too—
But under the floors, turned moldy and wet with constant storms,
Something is hidden too.
You must have been loved once,
Someone once said to you.
Can you try to remember who?
VI.
Thunder, glass, fire, dust, anger, sorrow, trust,
And the timings of reminiscence that follow melancholy,
And the trappings of dull curtains that blow in abject misery,
And the hanging of a rusty key of which there is no memory,
And the decades of decades that pass you by before you try to believe,
And here.
Here you are.
It's just you—
It always has been.
VII.
Step One:
Find an old log, hollowed out by life and life and life,
And find the steady finger-holds to grasp and pull it towards you.
Keep it there, take it back, and hold a wish to make it last forever.
Step Two:
Use a knife, one passed down from generations before you,
One that is sharp and heavy and easy to hold,
And swing it down.
Break that old, life-chipped log in two,
Separate them, and ensure to keep one for yourself.
Step Three:
That handy dagger you were given as a gift,
That one you've never used before,
Take it out and carve—
Until your fingers bleed and stain the wood red,
Until you've carved every note of every beat of your heart out,
Don't put down the knife.
Step Four:
Fasten it with metal, with something you've shaped yourself.
It is something that carries testimonies of burns and sweat and love,
And when you are finished, polish it.
Lay varnish on every corner, so it may gleam under the light,
Let those words you carved into it glisten and sing and sing and sing.
Step Five:
Give it away.
Your work, your tears, your heart, yourself—
Give it up, and pass it on,
It is no longer yours.
Step Six:
Feel your heartbeat,
It beats and beats and beats and
In their hands, in their dear hands, you are a treasure.
Step Seven:
You must surely have been loved once, you know?
How could you be the only thing left standing here, otherwise?
You must have been loved very much once, to be whole.
VIII.
In an old house, there is nothing here that may grow.
Whatever life was lived, whatever words were spoken, these have all been taken away.
Perhaps, though.
Just by chance,
If only you were once again foolish enough.
Then, please, follow me, and remember to bring the key I made you.
IX.
In a beaten cabinet, creaky and leaky and gray,
There are some things that have turned to dust,
And some that still have some shape.
In the bottom left drawer, if you cared enough to see,
Perhaps you would find that photo.
It's the only one left of us, and it was left to me.
X.
There is a locked box on top of an old wooden drawer,
Made with weathered carvings and faded varnish.
The key fits perfectly in a small, rusty lock,
Though time has beaten it out of shape, and tried to drain it of memories.
Someone had once made this box carefully,
Someone had once said 'I made this for you'.
Someone had loved so very much that—
This is their heart, and I pass it on to you.