A Gift With No Bows

That delicate little box you gave me,
I keep in the corner of my room

on the windowsill
where the sun dances —
illuminates the unguilty white wrapping
protects and keeps it warm.

Though the dust continues to settle,
the package remains as pure

as the blank page of a book
and as loyal as the sweetness to sugar.

I remember the day you held me tight
as you placed it in my hand, the covering

soft and thoughtful, my fingers
so unworthy to touch it.

It’s yours.
You whispered in my ear.

I said nothing back.
Some things are too late.

Maybe tomorrow I will give it the love
that I never allowed you to know.

Maybe tomorrow I will dress it in bows.


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