I wrote down on my mind what you had to say
about my long-forgotten CDs all dusty and
you didn't disappoint with words biting like termites
into the cobwebs of memories layers upon layers
I refused even to flick for nostalgic value,
yet you so gently rebutted: you saw it coming, didn't you?
A box of yesterdays at which you protested,
at will is my past, but the future is here to stay
if only you allow it to take place at the core
of your every day, if only you could see
it hurts every day to see you stuffed
in that box of yesterdays.
Little by little I saw the hope anchored in your eyes
clinging to change inexhaustible, if not a boat
waiting to sink at the deepest end of your dream,
so I would need to let go and set sail the box
on a journey to nowhere or end of the world,
wherever you couldn't see it at least.
P.S.: Written in a whim.