Box shreds. That’s all that’s left.
I had you kept,
wrote “mine” on the lid.
Put you on my shelf,
next to the heart-shaped box.
Where did you go?

You hadn’t claws enough
to escape. I gave you lovely things.
Sequins. Peaches
just ripe enough.
Love and the little bow
of my top lip.

I had you known.
Put your box in the sun.
Now there’s only shreds
and I wonder when you grew
knives enough to slice through wood
like an apple.

                   I guess
you escaped through the window,
the one I’d opened
so the light would touch so close,
uninterrupted by glass.

Where did you go,
where’s the shelf? Did you take it with you?
And the sun, I miss the sun. When did it
go dark?