The box lay closed, Forgotten by her, Under her stack of things, Thrown carelessly aside. Had she opened, She’d find books, Diaries of writing, Writings by her sister. Her late sister. The one she mourned, As each day passed. The one who left. The cardboard box, Taped and secured, Held her secrets, Her heart’s whispers. Had she opened, The box on time, She could’ve saved, Her sister’s life. Instead she sipped coffee, Cup she placed close, To the box of magic. Not close enough. A month later, Tears streaked her face, As she moved about things, Uncovering it at last. She sat down, heaving, The box onto the floor, Dusting the label, Reading her sister’s name on it. She pulled out books, Wrapped in satin, So delicate, She opened them. Olivia’s diaries, Filled with abstracts, Loneliness so silent, It was deafening. She laid them, shaking, Picking a letter white, Addressed to her, In pretty slant. “I miss you”, It read, “I need you, Call me.” The next w...
This is beautiful : )
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