There is this box-
it's small,
-carved-
but plain

It sits upon an equally plain
wooden desk.

In a rather drab bedroom
decorated by a single bed,
a chest of drawers,
a window with curtains drawn
and
the infamously mentioned
desk

All owned by a brilliant
girl
whose face was painted
by the sky
and whose hair was glittered
with stars and kissed by the
darkened eternity.
(I think of her often, remembering
her stoic smile)

I asked her
but once

"What do you keep in that lonely,
little box?"

Well,
her response, I should have
expected,

"Why, nothing but myself."

Perplexing.

Long nights spent imagining
Pandora's box being opened
or
maybe she spoke in some strange metaphor.

But would could that mean?

I do not know
But this evening
I stare at a white ceiling
wondering
myself into a confused oblivion.