6.24

Distressed, my joints creak. The staples pull at the wood of me, tearing through the old plant matter now preserved in a box-shape that contains me artfully and well. You slam the lid of me, cutting off light and hope, storing your sadness in with mine, a safe place, a vault for unwanted emotions. You turn the key, dropping it, walking away.
Where are you now, love? Why are you, now?
I keen and howl at the frightful keyhole, my only source of light. I miss you.