A thirty-year-old box stares from the top shelf,

Calling with memories and heartache.

Like a thistle attached to the cuff of his life,

The box could not be washed away, nor was it welcome.

Hands stained by sun, age and injury,

Pry open the box, it's key long lost.

A mélange of cedar, ink, old paper and Chanel,

Races from the box like a demon, triggering visions.

Blue Air Mail envelopes tied in a ribbon,

Flash images of the bars, beds, and busses where they were read with excitement.

The tissue, brittle and rough with age,

Somehow evokes the softness of her skin. 

A plastic, now worthless Telecom card,

Crackles with the hum, static and beeps of an overseas call.

He hears her accented, smoky voice, smiling through the wire,

“Is that you? How I have missed you.” 

A postcard from Wales is hot to the touch,

Shining amorous scenes against the attic wall.

His ears vibrate with the sound of smacking flesh, moans, and whispers.

His nostrils fill with the aroma of her perfume, sweat, and sex.

Pictures are the last to receive his focus,

Shaming him with the sins of time and regret.

His own youth and beauty are nearly as astounding as hers.

He sees joy and desire in her eyes, pride and ambition in his.

A cork rolls along the wood bottom, a Latour ’82,

Escaping his grasp and taunting him with failure.

Glasses clink in faraway London, “To us,” they smile and kiss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, as if he means it.