Brown Box

You died a few weeks ago, and yesterday you came home; except you aren't you, not anymore.
They brought you home in a brown cardboard box as if they could have shoved all of the light and warmth you brought us all into this minuscule vessel.
I think about it sometimes, how when I come to your house, you are there waiting for me on the kitchen counter as if you had never left us in the first place.

I sat in bed last night, staring at the ceiling; pondering how a person I have loved all of my life could just exist in silence like the way you are right now.
Your birthday was a week ago, and I didn't think it would hurt as much as it did to not be able to see you, and how you will not see me get married, or turn twenty-one in two months.

I got my septum pierced last week, because for a moment, I imagined the smooth feeling of a razor kissing its way down the bottom of my thighs, and how good it would feel to feel nothing at all.
I will spend the rest of my life missing you, even though you are already home waiting for me; in that fucking brown box.
I will spend every day looking around the corner, waiting for you to ask for coffee,
And on my twenty-first birthday, I'll drink a margarita for you, because I know you would love it.
And one day, when I see you again, it will be as if you never left me in the first place.
As if you never existed inside of a cardboard brown box.