You belong to a box now. That is it. Your existence in my life has been diminished to a piece of real estate in the corner of my dusty closet shelf. Your memory is confined to four cardboard walls. Once this box was filled with shoes, they've been removed from the box to carry me through new journeys. You, on the other hand, have been placed in the box for the opposite reason: you do nothing for me, you give me no more life experiences. A pair of leather boots makes me smile more than you do; they fit me better too.
You once belonged to a different box: the pink matter that fills the space between my two ears--instead of worn cardboard. You don't belong here anymore, this isn't your rightful place. In this previous box, you took over. You were there when you weren't supposed to be, distracting me from the world around me. You took over, did you ever pay your rent for inhabiting this space? Now, your home is a geometric space where light never reaches and memories aren't resurfaced. You can't reach me here. I hope you're honored by this: your letters, pictures, and random pieces of wood chips and friendship bracelets have a place to rest. They won't be tossed out as if they mean completely nothing, just simply left to be on their own. If I have been, then they should be too.