Spirits And The Box

He keeps the box on a shelf,
small and battered, like it's lived a thousand lives.
Dust gathers on the corners, but he doesn’t touch it, not since the day he put it there, not since the day he stopped believing in goodbye.

The bottle sits heavy in his hand,
Its amber glow the only warmth in the room.
He drinks like the world is ending,
like the burn will ease the pain in his chest.
But the spirit in the box never fades.

Some nights he swears he hears her voice,
soft and distant, like it's traveling through time,
the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of her name.
It wraps around him tighter than the silence.
He reaches for the box but stops halfway, his hands trembling like a leaf.

He drinks to forget, but forgetting is a cruel joke,
because her face is carved into the walls of his mind.
Every laugh, every word, every moment etched so deep, the thoughts bleed as he sinks.

The box holds whats left,
a picture, a ring and a letter.
He doesn’t open it, he doesn’t need to.
Its not the things he's afraid of,
Its the truth inside them.
The life he lost, the time he let slip, the thought of himself buried alongside  her.

So he drinks, and the box stays closed, a silent witness to a man unraveling, a spirit not trapped in wood or glass, but the hollow of his chest, where her memory still lives, and he can never let it rest.