Taping Up the Last Box

The dust motes dance in the afternoon light. On shelves where the action figures

used to fight. I'm folding a jersey that's two sizes too small.

And taking the posters down from the wall. The echo is loud in a

room this bare. I can still smell the shampoo you

used in your hair. And now I'm taping up the last box,

sealing it tight. Sending you off into your own life.

It's heavy with memories, light as a feather. Whatever storms come,

you'll weather. Go find your mountains, go find your sea.