There isn't much space on the desk between myself and my light box. I'm watching words appear on the box, but I keep looking at the reminder of you I just found, found it in a box of old forgotten things.
Maybe not so forgotten.
I remember blushing at that meeting. Big Jim asked us to stop staring at each other and pay attention.
I remember you letting me win at pool because I let you win at darts.
I remember how much you bragged to your friends about how great we were. I've never been prouder or happier.
Where did you go? Why did you go there?
It's been three years and I'm still picking up pieces of you.
That necklace was for you. I thought I threw it away. I can't do that. I can't give it to anyone else.
What can I do with this?