Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

Gently wedging styrofoam against metal
hoisting and hauling... and cramming it into the box.
That squeak of protesting cutout and cardboard
always makes my skin crawl
Must be how most people react to nails on chalkboard
back when chalkboard was culturally relevant.
All hail dry-erase.
And the fine inky powder it leaves on your fingers.
Professor's in their fashionable spectacles
and square jaws
leaning coyly against the board
and putting their $300 jacket over a full length smudge up their back.

For a moment I missed Matt.
A moment interupted by placing this duct tape against the parcel and slapping a big red "return to sender"
and for some reason summoning a memory of that blackhole that used to insist she wasn't like everyone else
the girl that smoked naked in the garage when it rained
or always borrowed my favorite shirts because they smelled like me.
The one that smiled after saying something cruel.
And turned away like a petulant child if you didn't love her enough, that very second.
That girl I made the mistake of loving.
And then the blackhole came
and she dissapeared into that blank singularity.

I snapped the adhesive against the box
smart
neat
but still bulging and groaning against my slapshot job of cramming the unwound original contents back inside.

Kinda like picking up the pieces.
Pieces I already threw out.

It was the right time to kick that box.
The right time for a full body ache, and a long slow simmer to bed.