My Juliet; 5 : 7

There's virtue found in scrubbing off the dirt --

A cleansing of the spirit, so to speak;

Catharsis hides beneath the pain and hurt,

More clarity in every shine and squeak.

He knows the box is there, and what awaits: 

Her clothes, her shoes, some personal affects;

Poet, being scared, procrastinates,

Though unsure why. What is it he expects?

'It's just a cardboard box, you silly twit.

You're surrounded by her stuff here anyhow.

Avoiding it has zero benefit;

Best to get it done with, here and now.'

A moment's pang of longing for his lover,

As gingerly, he lifts the box's cover. 

----

5 : 8

The running outfit worn the day she fell, 

Her shoes (well used), some books and toiletries,

Her contacts in their little plastic shell, 

A player full of popstar mp3s.

'How easily a life fits in a box,'

He muses with her memory in his heart,

Each thing a piece of her (before the pox),

But at the bottom comes the hardest part:

Her phone, where sticks a note from yellow pad,

Four digits only: 7 6 3 8

(That's 'POET' on the cell phone's number pad),

He taps each digit in, too stunned to wait...

The phone illuminates, and on the screen

Is something that our Poet's never seen. 

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.