The Box

I found a box under my bed. And not just any box, I found "the" box; the one that holds all my bad poetry. Poems about my teenage years, about all the unrequited silly crushes, about heartbreaks and happier days.

I've cursed that box so many times I've stopped counting. After each heartbreak, after each "darker" period of time, I'd write about all my anguish, all the pain, all the failed dreams...about all the things that would never be. 

But the ones that struck the most are the ones I wrote to my now ex. I have copies of handwritten letters I sent and drafts of some that never reached their intended destination. And it surprised me what finding those papers made me miss wasn't the relationship on it self. 

No, finding and reading all those letters made me miss the feeling of wanting to write something specifically to someone. I haven't felt that way ever since.

I miss the feeling of caring so much about someone that you want that person to know just how strongly you feel, in writing, on actual paper. No ruched "i-love-you's" here and there, no half baked "i <3 u" on the phone.. No, I mean proper, well thougt letters with a beginning, middle and end that are aimed to that particular person. Those types of letters you draft and restart over and over because you feel like your feelings aren't coming through well enough.

My future now looks like a blank notebook waiting to be filled with whatever my next step might be. But I sure hope that writing more of those letters is hidden between the lines of the pages still waiting to be written.

Andie