Where forever used to be - Part II

Time has carried the months away one after another.
And he still keeps the shells.
In a small box in his drawer where all of it still lives -
the shells which she picked up for him to keep, the old letters he never found the courage to send. 

He keeps it all shut, not out of fear, but because he knows opening it too often, would tear the parts of him he’s spent trying to hold together. Yet at some nights, when the silence feels heavier than usual, he takes it out. 

He reads the words he once wrote, the words full of love, of grief, of longing, of all the soft, desperate things he never had the courage to say out loud.

Some nights, the words feel like a stranger’s.
Other nights, they feel like home.

He holds the shells like tiny bones from a past life.
None of it is precious,
Not to anyone else.

But to him, its a proof that it wasn’t all a dream, that he didn’t make her up, that everything was real, once and he was capable of it and someone gave it back, even if it was just for a little while

and when he’s done, he folds them back as if tucking away a part of himself, placing the box carefully 

where it always been...

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