hidden in my room is a small wooden box
my cousin made for me
and while right now i can think of nothing else
when i am old and even more forgetful
my (or is it your?) memories will only be found folded there
expectant words and exultant pictures
even now they look so tidy
with no tear splotches
of course
you only wrote to indulge me
i only smiled to indulge you
the air was awfully clear today.
back when we talked endlessly
my words all were without lies.
the pure dreams i showed you there
are the hardest to replace.
tomorrow morning brings no sun.
it won't matter.
i won't really awaken anyway.
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